


A Violet Sky

by LoveActuallyFan



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Art, Artists, Betaed, Cover Art, Digital Art, Digital Painting, ElladanxElrohir, English Countryside, Fanart, Father/Son Incest, First Time, Graffiti, Illustrated, Incest, Incest Kink, Inspired by Music, London, M/M, Mild Kink, Muses, Oral Sex, Paintbrushes, Parent/Child Incest, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Port Rivendell, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Terrible angst, Thranduil with a man bun, World without Colour, artist!Thranduil, colour soulmates, erotic painting, fatcat!Gandalf, galleryowner!Bilbo, like that scene in titanic but absolutely more thrandolasy, longsuffering!Elrond, man bun, teenager!Legolas, thrandolas - Freeform, train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4908748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil is an exceptionally famous and well respected photo-realistic artist living in London. His paintings are infinitely detailed and renowned for their immaculate use of tonal variation. One day, on the eve of his largest ever solo exhibition, the son he only ever sees once a year arrives on his doorstep needing sanctuary.</p><p>Set in a world where everything is seen in shades of grey, and colours are commonly accepted as myth by those who have not found the other half of their soul, Thranduil discovers that finding his soul mate will change his life, his art and his heart, forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Radar

**Author's Note:**

> ***Bursts in, out of breath and excited***
> 
> Hello! As promised, this is my new Thrandolas AU. It's a soulmates inspired piece! Here is a little bit of background into the head-canon that I've made for myself:
> 
> _Everyone sees in black, grey and white until they come of age, when they turn 18, and are then able to perceive colours when they come into contact with their soul mate. The contact must be physical though, a skin-on-skin contact. When someone is parted from their soul mate through death, their ability to see colour fades away. So few people actually find their soul mates that it's not readily accepted. Colours are seen as the mythical rantings of lunatics (the lucky few who find their soul mates) and are akin to the concept of people saying that they see ghosts in this world._
> 
> This fic shall be beta-ed by the gracious and very patient [ofplanet_earth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth). She is also an amazing writer, and if you like Barduil, check out her soulmates piece [Inexplicable](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4243284/chapters/9601314)
> 
> I will be updating this piece once a week (On Friday mornings). I know this is a little sparse for me, but I intend on exploring some one-shot ideas and doing some more fanfic related art. So stay tuned for some fluffy, smutty Thrandolas/Barduil fics. I have not yet decided how many chapters this shall end up being, but it will be a full length fic.
> 
> This piece is very inspired by the song [ A Violent Sky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AwWXTByxJyI) by Apparat. If you have time, give it a listen. It is beautiful and really captures what I was going for here.
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy the chapter (which is more of a prologue and is shorter than the average chapter for this work) and the cover art.
> 
> Enjoy x

I've seen you all along.  
The place they called it home,  
coming down beneath a violent sky.  
These skies were happy kids,  
the music going loud  
to move here under the cloud of screaming.

 

[](http://s284.photobucket.com/user/loveactuallyfan91/media/AVS%20Chapter%201_zpssmrsann1.jpg.html)

Radar /ˈreɪdɑː/  _noun_ : an object-detection system that uses electromagnetic waves below the visible light spectrum to determine the range, angle, or velocity of objects.

Thranduil trudged through the wet streets of London, grasping his coat tighter around his chest to shield himself from the chilly evening air and the droplets of fog that hung in the air. He loved the type of weather the city was currently cloaked in, yet he loathed being out on the streets when there was rain. He would much prefer to be back in his studio with a fire crackling in the fireplace and soft classical music floating through the warmed air. He could be curled up on the couch, a good book clasped in his hands and the soft glowing from the fire illuminating the pages in front of him.

Alas, that would not be his fate tonight, as he’d had a rushed phone call from the gallery telling him that he was needed urgently. He never usually bothered with the finer details of his exhibitions—he had an assistant for that—but the gallery owner had sounded rushed and panicked as he had tried and failed to get hold of Thranduil’s assistant, Galion, for many hours. 

Thranduil cursed him as he tramped through the cold streets. Where could Galion possibly be with only hours until his exhibition opened? It was not usual for the fastidious man to be unreachable, something must have happened. Thranduil could not bring himself to care much about Galion’s wellbeing though, when his evening was so thoroughly ruined by having to leave his flat in such foul weather. 

He paused for a moment at an intersection on the street and wrapped his coat around himself tighter as he waited for the light to turn. The ornate rings he wore on his hands were chilly against his skin, the metal tighter around his fingers than usual, shrunken by the cold. There were very few people out on the streets of London at that time of night in such hideous weather, though there were still more than he was comfortable with. He stalwartly ignored the man that sidled up just a bit too close as they both waited for the light. Thranduil sighed in relief as the word ‘GO’ was lit up in front of him and he could move away from the people.

He brushed a drop of moisture from his cheek as he marched onwards, shoulders hunched and eyes cast downwards. His annoyance level rose incrementally as he walked, his hair was slowly but surely becoming limp and wet the farther he walked in the dense fog. He brushed a freezing hand through the limp strands, sighing as he felt the wetness. By the time he reached his destination his hair would be completely lifeless, the long white strands clinging to his scalp. Curse Galion and whatever tragedy that had befallen him. Dealing with some horrific emergency was not how he’d planned to spend his evening.

He sighed grumpily as he thought back to when he’d left his flat on the penthouse floor of one of the tallest buildings on the North bank. He had an amazing view of London and the park, especially from his home-based studio, where he’d had large windows installed to catch every inch of the fading English light. It was always fading, no matter the season. 

Gandalf, his fat British shorthair cat, had watched him pull on a coat and exit his flat with what he swore was a smug grin on his fuzzy lips. He and the cat hated one another. Gandalf abhorred doing anything other than eating and sleeping, preferably in that order, and Thranduil hated the tiny bits of fur that the cat would shed all over his flat and the maddening way Gandalf would chew the ends of his paintbrushes. He didn’t know what had possessed him to get a cat, though his studio did feel more complete with a feline lounging around. Perhaps it was expected of a reclusive artist to have feisty pet? Perhaps he could never get close enough to Gandalf to catch him and take him to the pound. Though he was usually lazy and bloated from all the food he consumed, the cat was surprisingly fast whenever Thranduil made to grab him.

Thranduil continued his journey hurriedly, his destination almost visible through the misty air. Thranduil started and then rolled his eyes as a figure rolled out of the fog on the street in front of him. It was a grubby man, probably not much older than himself, but incredibly dirty and ragged in appearance. He held out a trembling hand to Thranduil as he passed him, his worn glove curling and fraying at the seams. Thranduil pulled up his nose at the extended hand and deliberately gave the beggar man a wide berth; he’d never liked dirt, or poverty. The man’s eyes followed him sadly as he passed by, and Thranduil tried to avoid the wretched gaze. The man had a grubby, torn cardboard sign in his other hand, and he swivelled so that Thranduil could see what was written on it:

‘I can’t see them anymore’

Thranduil’s brow twitched in confusion as he read the words. The man was obviously a lunatic as well as being grimy and destitute. What an unfortunate combination. Thranduil’s heated breath swirled out in front of him as he plodded onwards, steadily making his way across Westminster Bridge. The façade of the gallery greeted him through the mist, rising out of the dull haze gradually, and then all at once. Thranduil stopped in his soggy tracks and blinked in surprise up at the sombre stone building. It was obvious now what the emergency was, and Thranduil’s jaw slackened in surprise.

The gallery owner hurried out to meet Thranduil from the large doorway to the old, gothic building. He was wringing his hands in worry, his eyes riveted to what Thranduil’s reaction would be.

“Baggins,” Thranduil nodded, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Mister Oropherion, I apologise for disturbing you,” he said, trying to swallow the nervousness that had gathered in his voice, “But as you can see, it’s quite a… large… problem.”

“When did it happen?” Thranduil asked, moving forwards and tilting his head, his eyes scanning upwards over the front of the building.

“Last night,” Bilbo said, shaking his head, “It’s this bloody fog, it provides the perfect cover for them.”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows, though it had obviously been rushed, and the form was quite rudimentary, the huge splatter of graffiti that was sprayed over the front of the gallery showed a great level of skill. If it hadn’t been defacing a centuries old building, Thranduil would have admitted that he quite liked it. The spray paint writhed and swirled at the corners of the brick wall, building to a crescendo of tone and tint that formed a large, branched tree that spun outwards. Many leaves were shown falling from the branches, fluttering down amongst the lower story windows. It was beautiful, and Thranduil could not tear his eyes from it as Bilbo continued to speak.

“I mean, they spray painted over the windows for god’s sake! That will never come off properly!” Bilbo was shaking his head, grimacing up at the large tree that had grown on his gallery overnight. “The police were here this morning. They say the vandal is known to them, it’s tagged GL right over there, right over your promo!” Bilbo pointed to the letters emblazoned across a sign advertising Thranduil’s solo exhibition.

Thranduil found he didn’t mind the fact that the sign was defaced and his brow furrowed in thought, “How did they do it?” Thranduil walked forwards, coming close to examine the spray-work.

Bilbo blinked and followed him, “Do what? Who?”

“The artist, how did they spray paint all of that on the side of a huge building overnight? In the rain and the fog?” Thranduil said, looking upwards. The building was seven stories high; the artist must have a death wish.

“Artist?” Bilbo blanched, horrified, “Whoever they are they’re no artist! They’re a common criminal!”

Thranduil’s lips twitched up at the corners, “I wouldn’t call them common.”

Bilbo huffed out a grumbled response and began to head into the gallery, murmuring about hooligans and yobs and the general degradation of society. Thranduil followed wordlessly, his eyes lingering on the tree that now sprawled across building.

“The reason I called was that I don’t think we can have it cleaned off by the time your exhibition opens,” Bilbo explained as they entered the large space of the lobby. While the building’s shell was old, the inner space had been completely gutted and refurbished in a modern style; all white walls and white ceilings and shiny metal accents. “I have been trying Galion all day, but he seems to have dropped off the face of the planet. They don’t even think that it will be all cleaned off for a whole week!”

Thranduil shook the droplets of water from his coat and hair as he followed Bilbo through to the space that his exhibition would be held in. Usually he never visited a gallery before his shows; Galion had been with him for twenty years and knew precisely how he liked things. Thranduil was quite superfluous when it came to the hanging of his works. 

“Well, here it is…” Bilbo said as they entered the largest space in the gallery. Thranduil looked around and nodded. While there were still some people milling about, hanging works and fiddling with lighting, the exhibition seemed nearly ready. As always, Galion had ensured that his works were displayed immaculately. “Well?”

“It’s fine, I suppose.” Thranduil ran a hand through his damp hair. Once he’d finished a piece it never truly interested him again. The only reason he exhibited was because it was expected of him. He was glad of Galion running the business side of his art, as he had no interest in it. Truthfully he had very little interest in anything anymore. He’d become famous for his huge, photorealistic renderings of people - of faces and hands and legs and shoulders and ears. They were all perfectly to proportion and infinitely detailed and they exhibited a masterful control of all the tones and tints that appeared on his subject. He lost himself in his paintings. He lost himself in the large blank canvas that always greeted him when he started, in the feel of his brushes in his hands, of the acrid smell of turpentine swirling together with the musky, gentle aroma of oil paint. It was his favourite smell, the smell that was permanently soaked into his light and airy studio back at home. It made him feel nostalgic for a time before, and it warmed his heart with notions of how he would perfectly represent his subject.

But then it would be over. He would finish a piece and never want to look at it again. The finished product bored him; it was the process that enthralled him. As of late, though, his ability to bury himself in his work and survive solely on his creative process was beginning to fail him. He found himself staring blankly at an equally blank canvas. His brush strokes did not feel the same as they once had, he’d begun to lose the immersive feeling, and he had not produced a new work in months. 

“Fine?” Bilbo repeated, looking defeated. Though he had known Thranduil for many years, he’d never been more than an acquaintance to the reclusive artist.

Thranduil shrugged his shoulders. To him his work was boring, and he found himself wondering about the large tree emblazoned on the front of the gallery. He itched to see it once more and scrutinise it properly. It was rushed, yes, and nowhere near his own meticulous style, but there was something odd about how he felt when he looked at it. It was almost familiar, yet he knew he had never seen it before. Trees had never interested him before. Nature was all the same to him, flat and lifeless and tedious to paint. He avoided it at all costs. 

Bilbo blinked a few times before he turned, barking out orders to a startled worker, determined to impress Thranduil with the showing of his work. If the artist only thought it ‘fine’, he would have to do better.

Thranduil watched the people scurry around, lugging around canvases and checking off items on long lists of artworks. Where the hell was Galion? This was his area, and Thranduil felt uncomfortable. Though he loved galleries and museums in general, he preferred to be alone when he visited them. It was the large open spaces, and the light. Most museums had a glorious display of natural light. Light is what Thranduil strove for in his works, and it had always lured him in like a moth to a flame. Now, at night and full of people, the art gallery held no appeal to Thranduil. 

He was just about to excuse himself from Bilbo, telling him that the graffiti did not bother him and to go ahead with the exhibition, when he was stopped in his tracks for the second time that night. 

Standing across from him was a young man dressed in skinny jeans and a rumpled jumper. His shoes were too big for him and they ended the slim line of his legs rather clumsily. His hair was long, reaching down past his shoulders, and he had delicately braided the strands on either side of his head. Most of his hair was slightly damp, and it clung to his head and his collar in much the same way that Thranduil’s own did. He was gazing nervously across the room, his eyes blinking at Thranduil as if he was making sure that he recognised him. 

“Thranduil? Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a colour!” Bilbo half laughed and approached the shocked artist, his gaze following Thranduil’s to the young man that stood just inside the exhibition room.

Thranduil gulped in a lungful of air before he said shakily, “Legolas?”


	2. Microwaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil discovers why Legolas wanted to see him, and provides the safe haven that his young son was searching for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***waves***
> 
> Hi everyone, thank you for the comments and the kudos on the last chapter, it is very much appreciated. Here is chapter two. This chapter sheds a bit more light on Thrandolas' relationship and gives some background to their situation. Also, fatcat!Gandalf makes his first appearance.
> 
> A huge thank you to [ofplanet_earth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth), she is doing an amazing job as my beta and I'm very grateful! <3
> 
> If you'd like to see more art, the character studies for this fan fiction and a very cute chibi of kittenfatcat!Gandalf, visit my art blog here: [plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, let me know what did or did not work for you x

Microwaves /ˈmʌɪkrə(ʊ)weɪv/ _noun_ : a form of electromagnetic radiation used extensively in telecommunications, navigation and the heating of objects.

* * *

 

“Legolas?” Thranduil said again, and the young man smiled quickly and approached him and Bilbo.

“Adar,” Legolas said.

Thranduil’s heavy brow furrowed in confusion, “Legolas, what are you doing here?”

Legolas avoided Thranduil’s surprised eyes as he said, “I’ve been looking for you.”

Thranduil’s frown only deepened, and he was about to question Legolas further when he noticed Bilbo staring pointedly at the young man.

“Bilbo, this is my son, Legolas,” Thranduil said, motioning between the two of them.

Bilbo gave Legolas a warm smile before taking his hand in his, shaking it firmly. “I didn’t know you had a son,” Bilbo said, scrutinising Legolas. He certainly looked very much like Thranduil. They both had the same shape ears, jawline and eyes, and the same flowing white hair. Legolas was less heavy set in the brow, though, and had a more youthful, delicate structure to his face. Thranduil was all cheekbones and eyebrows, whereas Legolas had a more open face, a more approachable countenance.

“Adar, may I talk to you? Please?” Legolas said after exchanging pleasantries with Bilbo. Thranduil’s brow creased in renewed confusion at his son’s request, but he nodded and made for the door of the gallery, motioning for Legolas to follow him.

His son had grown since the last time he’d seen him. He’d obviously hit a growth spurt, and now came almost to eye level with Thranduil. He’d filled out more also, and Thranduil noted that Legolas was no longer a child, but had grown into a young adult.

Legolas trailed after his father apprehensively as he stepped out into the icy London fog. He had always been a little afraid of his father. He had grown up only seeing him once a year, on his birthday, and his appearance had scared Legolas when he was small. Thranduil was tall—exceptionally tall—and he wore his hair long, past his shoulders and down his chest. His expression was almost always grim and Legolas had always thought him stoic, unapproachable and very intimidating. He remembered one year begging his mother to allow him not to see his father - remembered being frightened of the way Thranduil’s face never seemed to show his emotions.

Thranduil clutched his coat around himself once more, eyeing the thin jumper that Legolas wore. “Aren’t you cold?” Thranduil questioned, and Legolas shrugged. In truth he was cold, freezing in fact, but he had no coat of his own. He’d had to leave in a hurry and had forgotten his duffle coat. Thranduil shot Legolas a worried look for a second or two before he stopped, unbuttoning his coat. Legolas stopped with him, watching as his father shrugged off his long woollen coat and handed to him.

“I’m alright, Adar,” Legolas said, taken aback at his father's offering. He was left only in a sweater and shirt, he must be cold himself.

“You’re cold, Legolas, I’ll be fine,” Thranduil said, holding out the coat even further. Legolas’ eyes flicked from the offered clothing to Thranduil a few times before he accepted it, shrugging off his backpack and slipping into the silk-lined warmth. The coat was at least two sizes too big for him but it gave him instant relief from the biting cold. The strong, encompassing scent of his Thranduil’s cologne dominated the coat. He always smelled the same: like fresh grapefruit with an earthy, wooden undertone and just a hint of spicy saffron, with faint whispers of oil paint and turpentine. All Legolas’ memories of his father smelled this way.

Legolas was quite lost in the haze of familiarity and forgotten memories when he jerked his backpack back up onto his shoulder in haste. The tell-tale clinking of spray-paint cans tinkled through the air, and Thranduil momentarily forgot the cold; his eyes widening. Legolas realised his mistake too late and opened his mouth to begin to spew a lie.

“You did that?” Thranduil spluttered, motioning to the defaced front of the art gallery. Legolas’ mind blanked, he hadn’t bothered thinking up a prior excuse. His father did not know of his artistic ability, or his proclivity for graffiti. He’d assumed that Thranduil would not put two and two together.

When Legolas did not answer his question, and only stared at him with wide, deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes, Thranduil’s mouth fell open and he gasped, “Legolas!”

Legolas’ face scrunched into a frown, “You never answer your damned mobile phone. Your landline is not listed. You don’t accept any mail. You never come out of your flat and I couldn’t even get into the lobby without that idiot doorman kicking me out! I had to get your attention somehow!” Legolas huffed, his face tinging red. He’d been trying to contact his Adar for weeks, yet even when he’d found the reclusive artists’ apartment, he could not get within a few metres of the building without the burly doorman blocking his way and telling him to leave. He knew he looked rather scruffy, but he had repeatedly told him that his father lived in the building.

Thranduil’s eyes widened even further, his eyebrows shooting up. “You did this to see me?”

Legolas looked down to his feet, a light breeze catching the wisps of his hair and billowing them out across his face. “What else could I do?” he mumbled, “You’re incredibly hard to get hold of.”

Thranduil blinked for a few seconds, Legolas’ words swirling through his mind. Why was he trying to see him? They only ever saw each other once a year when he would arrive at the small flat that Legolas shared with his mother, nervous and usually with an ostentatious gift in hand. It was still a month until Legolas turned eighteen, what could he possibly want?

He’d never been much of a father to Legolas before; he’d never had to scold him or dissuade him from mischief or illegal activities. Even though Thranduil was a little proud that it was his son who could create such an amazing piece of art, he knew he should tell him that it was wrong and that he shouldn’t do it again. He could not find it within himself to do so, however, so instead he said, “I don’t have a mobile phone.”

Legolas looked up, confused. What number had he been calling then?

“Wait,” Thranduil said suddenly, his face contorting in realisation, “How did you know that I would come to deal with this? It’s usually Galion who deals with the gallery.”

Legolas set his mouth in a line, becoming sheepish. “I may have got a message to him saying that his mother was dying up in Scotland. He’s probably on his way back by now.”

Thranduil’s eyes grew wide at his son’s tactics. Legolas was always such a sweet child, never daring to put a foot out of line. Now he was lying and scamming and defacing public property—beautiful though it was. This was not the son that he thought he knew. Thranduil turned, his eyes glancing back to the sprawling tree that was emblazoned on the art gallery. Legolas’ tree. Legolas’ art. He found he couldn’t be angry, not when his son had gone to such lengths to find him.

“Well?” Thranduil sighed, running a hand through his damp hair, “What’s so important that you needed to lie to my assistant and risk your life to see me?”

Legolas swallowed hard, the tiny muscle in his cheek twitching imperceptibly. A shadow crept over his face, sadness darkening his eyes. Legolas heaved a shaky, measured breath and clutched Thranduil’s coat closer to his skin before he whispered, “Naneth died.”

 

* * *

 

Thranduil cradled his cup of steaming tea in his chilly hands as he sat down, blowing on the hot drink to cool it down. Legolas, holding an identical cup of tea, looked at his father with wide eyes as he sat down. Thranduil was still shivering slightly from the cold; he’d let Legolas wear his coat all the way back to his flat.

Legolas lifted his hand and scratched absently at Gandalf’s fluffy ears. The fat cat was sprawled out on the armrest of the couch next to him. Usually Gandalf was opposed to all humans, strangers in particular, but Legolas seemed to have won him over with no effort whatsoever. As soon as he had stepped through the door, Gandalf was mewing around his ankles, looking up at the new human in his domain with large love-struck eyes. Thranduil had watched the interaction with a twitching scowl. He’d never known Gandalf to take to anything other than food in all the years he’d owned the grumpy cat. It was disconcerting for him to watch as Gandalf looked up at Legolas as if he were perfection incarnate. The cat had never looked at him with anything other than absolute loathing thinly veiled by strained tolerance. The cat was obviously going senile, and perhaps he thought Legolas was some sort of large cookie. Gandalf was obsessed with cookies. He was also obsessed with chasing his own tail, but mostly cookies.

Legolas bit his lip as Thranduil fixed him with a hard stare, his eyes examining every expression on his son’s face; he was quite enthralled by the way the flickering light of the fire bounced off his son’s slightly hollowed cheeks. He seemed thin. When had Legolas last eaten? There was so much he did not know of his son’s situation. “I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes growing sad, “I’m sorry you couldn’t contact me.”

Legolas shrugged and took a tentative sip of the tea. He’d been living on friends’ couches for weeks, constantly moving around and trying not to draw attention to himself. A steaming cup of tea and a quiet, warm place to sit was a nice change from the cold and the bustle of London.

“When did this happen?” Thranduil asked cautiously. Legolas looked outwardly unaffected by his situation, yet Thranduil did not believe his calm exterior to be true.

“A few months ago; Aneurysm,” he said, snipping his sentences short. He didn’t like speaking of his mother’s death, it made it seem more real to him and he preferred to live with the notion that she was still waiting for him back at home.

Legolas tried to distract himself from his thoughts by taking in his strange surroundings. He had always known that his father was a rich, successful artist—it was what had inspired him in his own creative endeavours—but he hadn’t been prepared for just how well Thranduil lived. His penthouse flat took up the entire top floor of the opulent building adjacent to the park. Though the building was old, the flat was furnished with modern accessories and provided an oasis of warmth and comfort in the middle of a cold and miserable city. No wonder Thranduil barely left the place; it was incredible.

Legolas’ eyes trailed over to where he could see Thranduil’s studio was. The flat’s large living area was only divided by furniture, and Legolas could see the stack of blank canvases piled against the far wall. Thranduil had tubes of paint strewn around benches that enclosed his creative space and paintbrushes of varying sized were gathered in a large jar to the side of his easel. Perched there was a large canvas, the image on it half completed and seemingly abandoned.

“Why did nobody tell me?” Thranduil asked, more to himself than to Legolas.

Legolas shrugged and said, “You’re unreachable, Adar, and you’re not listed as my father on my birth certificate. No one knows that I’m your son.”

Thranduil sat back slowly, his thoughts racing. Legolas’ mother had never wanted him to play a large role in his son’s life, thinking his way of life and personality unsuited for raising a child. He’d never really contributed to his son’s life beyond the money he sent each month. He’d been happy to shrug the responsibility of a youthful drunken night.

“I tried to stay under the radar to avoid social services,” Legolas said. “But they caught up with me and threatened to put me into a group home until I turn eighteen. Even though it’d only be for a month, I didn’t want to go,” Legolas said softly. “I just need a place to hide out until I can live on my own.”

Thranduil stared at his son wordlessly, guilt rising up in his chest. His face was impassive as he processed this information. He’d never been particularly good at showing emotion, he’d never felt close enough to another person to show what he was feeling. He usually blamed his harsh, overbearing father and his passive mother for his inability to connect with his emotions and with others. But now, as his own son gazed at him in desperation, he could very definitely identify what he was feeling; guilt at allowing his son to become homeless and parentless, sadness at the pain he’d caused, and a tinge of self-loathing for perpetuating the cycle of parental ambivalence.

Legolas took Thranduil’s stoic silence as a bad sign. His father had never been particularly interested in him—only saw him once a year, never really got to know him. How could he expect the man to give him shelter?

“I’m sorry,” Legolas said quickly, setting his tea down slowly and making to get up, “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have…” Legolas fumbled for words. He shouldn’t have… what? Bothered him? Asked for help? “It’s only a month, I’m sure I can figure something out.” He knew he couldn’t. He’d tried. He’d been surviving by the skin of his teeth for months; his luck had finally run out.

Thranduil watched as Legolas stood up, brushing his jumper down nervously, “Don’t be silly, iôn-nín. Of course you may stay here.”

Legolas immediately wanted to cry. He wanted to sob. The relief that flooded through him made his stomach clench, his eyes prickle and his ears burn. Perhaps it was the endearment that Thranduil used that made him feel so stricken? He’d acted like his homelessness and the loss of his mother didn’t bother him around his friends but in truth, he had been in the depths of an emotional turmoil. He had no other family apart from Thranduil, and had tried bravely to take care of himself and get by without help. Now, being told that he would be given a warm, safe place to stay, he found he could barely breathe. Legolas hid his feelings well though, not wanting to make Thranduil feel as though he’d made a mistake, lest he change his mind. If he hadn’t been so guarded in that moment, Legolas would have flung his arms around his father’s neck, buried his face in Thranduil’s hair, and held on for at least an hour.

Instead of hugging his father, as he itched to, Legolas knit his brow and asked solemnly, “Are you sure?”

Thranduil looked over to where Gandalf lay, sprawled out and snoozing happily on the armrest of the couch. “I’m sure. Gandalf’s has never met a human he’s liked. But he seems to like you, so I’m sure he won’t mind either.”

Legolas looked down to the sleeping cat and then back to his father. Thranduil gazed back at him with cool, impassive eyes. While Legolas was grateful for his father’s generosity, the man still intimidated him.

“Thank you, Adar,” was all Legolas could say.

Thranduil nodded slowly and rose to his feet. Gandalf was immediately awake at the movement of his master. His eyes flew open and narrowed as he watched Thranduil rise and motion for Legolas to follow him. The cat looked on with suspicious interest as Legolas followed Thranduil through the flat and soon he was on his paws trailing after the beautiful stranger with the kind eyes and who smelled faintly of freshly baked cookies. Gandalf could never resist a cookie.

“There’s another bedroom down the hall if this will not be adequate,” Thranduil said as he opened the door to the bedroom that would become Legolas’. Legolas’ eyes widened as he slipped past Thranduil into the bedroom; it was massive and gorgeous and it had its own bathroom. Legolas felt as though he was in paradise, after living rough on couches and having to bum showers from his friends.

Thranduil quirked one of his heavy brows at the wondrous look on his son’s face, “Will this do?” Thranduil asked.

Legolas nodded emphatically, his throat becoming clogged with emotion once more. “Thank you,” Legolas managed to whisper, and Thranduil tilted his head in acknowledgement. He lingered for a moment, awkwardly staring at his son. He didn’t know what he should say. Should he try and ask his about his mother? Should he ask about his life? How he felt? What he wanted? Or did Legolas prefer to be left alone, taking after his father in that respect? What was expected of him? Had Legolas come looking for a father, or did he just want a place to stay for a month?

Thranduil hesitated for a few moments more before he said, “Are you hungry?” It was the most fatherly thing he could think of.

Legolas was starving. He had barely eaten anything since the previous evening. He had hung around the gallery for hours, hoping that Thranduil would eventually be summoned. Thranduil recognised the ravenous look on his son’s face, and he did not need an answer from Legolas to know that he was famished.

“Is pizza still your favourite?” Thranduil asked, and Legolas’ face lit up at the mention of his favourite food and at the fact that his father had remembered.

Thranduil inwardly congratulated himself. It was unusual that he said or did the right thing when around people he did not know well. Usually it was because he just didn’t care about people in general. He hated socialising and much preferred his solitary existence. But with Legolas he found himself wanting to make him smile. He found that it made him happy to make his son happy. It was a novel concept to the reclusive artist.

Thranduil was about to turn and make the call for pizza, when he saw a flicker of something dart across Legolas’ face. It was some emotion that he couldn’t quite pin down.

“Adar…” Legolas began, bringing his arms up to hug around himself awkwardly. Thranduil waited patiently for Legolas to continue. “Adar, I can’t… I can’t pay you. I can’t pay you for rent or food... or anything…”

Thranduil frowned, confused. Did Legolas really think he expected his own son to compensate him for the use of a spare bedroom and some food? What must Legolas think of him to assume such a thing? Surely their short interactions could not have given him that idea? He wasn’t cruel. He knew he was stand-offish to most people, but not cruel.

Thranduil considered Legolas for a moment. His son was obviously embarrassed, with his hands clutched around his arms and his eyes downcast. Thranduil studied the peaks and hollows of Legolas’ face. He was always concerned with the light and the dark on form, and Legolas was no exception. His eyes traced down the curve of Legolas nose to the gentle slope of his lips and the sharp jut of his jaw. He knew that dismissing Legolas’ worries would only make him feel worse. For once, Thranduil knew what would make it right.

“I always need models, Legolas. I’ll consider us even if you pose for me.”

Legolas’ eyes darted up to his father’s and he gaped at Thranduil in mild shock. “Me?”

Thranduil nodded and conveniently omitted the fact that he had not painted anything in months. Legolas had an incredibly beautiful face, and the way the light was hitting his cheekbones at that moment caused a flutter of excitement to settle in Thranduil’s stomach. He knew the feeling well; it was his artistic urge clawing away at him. He had thought it dormant, and was pleased that it had returned.

Before Thranduil could say anything more, he was startled by Legolas moving towards him. Thranduil froze and went rigid as his son wrapped his hands around him and under his arms, pulling him into a soft hug. Though Legolas had grown in the last year, he was still a fair bit shorter than his father, and he rested his head on Thranduil’s chest as he hugged him. Thranduil swallowed hard and brought his hands up, his palms hovering above Legolas’ back hesitantly. Eventually, when Legolas gave him a small squeeze of reassurance, he held his son and rested his cheek against the top of his head. He smiled gently as the smell of Legolas’ hair surrounded him; though they’d had little time together over the years, the scent was familiar and it brought fond memories.

After a few long moments of holding each other, Thranduil pulled gently back. He avoided his son’s eyes as he said, “I’ll order the pizza.”


	3. Infrared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas turns eighteen, and his father agrees to host a few of his friends for drinks before they take Legolas out for the night. Legolas is excited about introducing his father to his friends, but things don't quite go to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***bounces***
> 
> Hello! Here is chapter 3! I hope you enjoy it :) All props go to my lovely beta, [ofplanet_earth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth), who puts up with my shit and lets me flail. She is currently torturing Thranduil and Bard in her story [Inexplicable](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4243284/chapters/9601314). Check it out if you like horrific angst. 
> 
> _Warning: There are some quite squirmy descriptions of throwing up in this chapter._
> 
> All feedback is much appreciated and very welcome <3  
> Enjoy! x

[ ](http://s284.photobucket.com/user/loveactuallyfan91/media/AVS%20Chapter%203_zpsa33b42h6.jpg.html)

Infrared /ɪnfrəˈrɛd/ adjective: a form of electromagnetic radiation with longer wavelengths than those of visible light. Used in night vision equipment and in IR reflectography for the conservation of artworks.

“Adar… I have to get ready now! And there’s a twinge in my neck.” Legolas said, his eyes straining to look at his father. He was sat in front of one of the art studio’s large bay windows, light streaming in and hitting his face prettily. His profile was on full view for Thranduil, and Legolas strained to see his father out of the corner of his eyes, not daring to move and ruin the artist’s view.

“Just a few more minutes, I nearly have it,” Thranduil mumbled absently, one paintbrush clutched between his teeth and another scratching away at the large canvas in front of him.

Legolas raised an eyebrow but kept otherwise still. The only movement that Thranduil allowed was shallow breathing and the occasion nose scratch. Legolas had found the first time he’d sat for his father exciting, interesting and rather nerve-wracking, yet he was currently posing for the sixth canvas. He was leaning forward, his neck was strained from the awkward angle and, while he had no doubt that the aesthetic of his nose and extended neck would compliment each other, the physical practicality of the pose had him sore.

“Adar!” Legolas hissed, his neck beginning to cramp. Thranduil murmured a response and kept on working feverishly, his eyes rapidly flicking back and forth between the canvas and his son. “Adar!” Legolas yelped and raised a hand to massage the crook of is neck. He was fed up with posing. Somehow, he had awakened his father’s dormant muse. And while at first he had been flattered that such a great artist would be inspired by his face, he was now in no mood to sit still. It was his birthday after all, and his friends would be arriving soon.

“Hand down!” Thranduil barked. Legolas rolled his eyes but returned his hand into its original position, heaving a long-suffering sigh and pursing his lips. From across the room, Gandalf gazed at him, fascinated. The cat’s initial approval of Legolas had mutated into a full-blown obsession and he followed him everywhere he went—even to the toilet, much to Legolas’ dismay. He’d once even tried to climb into the shower with him, but had scattered quickly when he realised that the water in the shower was, in fact, wet. 

Legolas smiled at the fat cat, who cocked his head in interest. He never quite understood what his master and his best friend did when they engaged in such activities. Why Legolas would sit still for hours and let Thranduil meticulously capture his every feature was beyond the cat. He assumed that Thranduil had finally gone insane. He was surprised it had taken this long; he’d been trying to drive is master crazy for years with no success.

“Okay,” Thranduil said eventually, and Legolas let out a sigh of relief and sat back, massaging his neck once more. Thranduil paid no attention to his son as he scrutinised his canvas, stepping back and squinting his eyes.

“How does it look?” Legolas asked, standing awkwardly. He’d been seated for three hours and his legs were stiff and wobbly. He stretched them out as he padded over to where his father’s easel was set up. Gandalf’s beady eyes never left Legolas, tracking his movements as he crossed the studio. Thranduil merely shrugged and stepped back, tilting his head slightly at his own work. While the other pieces he’d done of his son were important to him, this one mattered most and he was strangely nervous about Legolas’ reaction. Usually he didn’t notice what others thought of his art; they either liked it or they didn’t, and he never bothered himself with caring which it was.

Legolas wandered around the easel, rubbing his neck, but stopped abruptly when he saw what his father had painted. His hand slipped down, hanging loosely at his side as his eyes grew wide. His father had completely captured Legolas on the canvas. He’d shown him in profile, his head extended as if looking upwards. The light that his father had portrayed hit Legolas’ nose, chin and lips in all the right places, highlighting his youthful features. The sparkle in his eyes made the painting come alive, as if he would turn around and look at the viewer at any moment. It was a masterpiece of form, tone and light.

Five versions of Legolas’ face were already scattered around the flat in various stages of completion, all detailed and photo-realistic. But this perfect rendering of his face and his emotions took him by surprise and he gaped at the large canvas.

“Happy Birthday,” Thranduil mumbled when he finally turned from the canvas and noticed Legolas’ surprise.

Legolas’ eyes grew even wider, “It’s for me?”

Thranduil shrugged and wiped one of his paint-splattered hands on the old jeans he was wearing, “You didn’t think I’d make you pose on your birthday and not give you the piece, did you?”

A huge smile lit up Legolas’ face and he turned to his father, beaming. He couldn’t quite believe how well Thranduil had captured him. It was not just his physical form that was well rendered, but the underlying personality that his father had shown was dead on. Though they had been getting along surprisingly well over the past month, it was a shock to see how well his father had gotten to know him. In the short time they had spent together, he had realised that they were polar opposites in most respects. While Thranduil loved his solitude, Legolas thrived among people. Thranduil enjoyed his routine and familiar environments, and Legolas craved new experiences and foreign places.

Legolas had worried that they would clash, that Thranduil would get fed-up with him and kick him out, but his father was only ever patient with him. He’d even been coaxed out of his apartment once or twice when Legolas insisted that he should try a particular restaurant or accompany him to see a movie. Legolas had foregone his illegal graffiti habit while living with Thranduil, knowing that it made his father uncomfortable. Instead, Thranduil had let him use as many canvases as he wanted, encouraging him to broaden his skills and explore new things. Legolas could not have imagined their time together going any smoother. He’d been wary of it in the beginning, but had quickly realised Thranduil was not the imposing, scary figure that he projected. They’d got on so well, in fact, that they hadn’t even discussed what he would do after he’d turned eighteen.

Now, looking at the piece that Thranduil had made for him, he couldn’t imagine leaving. The day he’d begged Thranduil for a place to stay seemed like a whole lifetime ago, and he couldn’t fathom his life without his father or the easy friendship that they had developed. Thranduil had not tried to father him, but had instead treated him as an adult. It had grounded Legolas, made him feel as though his world was no longer spinning out of control. It had allowed him to begin healing from the trauma he’d experienced.

Legolas knew his father was not a fan of hugs, or of touching in general. He knew that Thranduil found it awkward when he hugged him, though he hadn’t dared to very often after that first hug in what had become his room. But he felt that this gesture deserved a show of his affection, and he pulled Thranduil into a hug before he could dodge him. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t want to push his luck. He felt Thranduil stiffen under his touch, as he usually did, but his father seemed to relax more readily into the hug. Perhaps he was getting used to the displays of affection?

“You’ll get paint all over you,” Thranduil said softly, his words vibrating against the crown of Legolas’ head. While Thranduil’s flat was immaculate, his creative space was a mess. He somehow always managed to get paint splatters on every surface, including himself.

Legolas shrugged as much as he could in his father’s embrace, before he pulled back and looked up at Thranduil with excited eyes. Thranduil had agreed to let some of his friends drop by his flat for drinks before they took Legolas out to celebrate his coming-of-age in style. Legolas was apprehensive of his friends meeting his father, but his excitement at the prospect of introducing Thranduil to another aspect of his life far outweighed his reticence.

“I should get changed,” Legolas said, struggling to suppress the wide grin that spread over his lips. He noticed happily that Thranduil had a small smile playing on his own lips as he nodded. Legolas slipped past his father and headed to his bedroom to make himself decent. Gandalf jumped from his perch, mewed loudly and threw Thranduil a withering look before he trotted after Legolas. Even since his unfortunate encounter with shower water he’d continued to accompany Legolas to the bathroom, though he found it safer to watch from a distance. Thranduil scowled as he watched his fat cat wobble away after his son.

Crazy fucking cat.

**§§§**

Legolas fiddled nervously with the tray of food he was rearranging. He had hoped the evening would have been going better, but it seemed his friends’ sense of humour had been rather lost on his father. Not only had they brought a pair of large, comical breasts for Legolas to wear, but they had also placed a ridiculous birthday hat on his head that read ‘Birthday Girl’ quite prominently—no doubt a dig at his long hair. They’d also placed a hat with the same words on Gandalf’s poor little head, having first chased the cat around the flat with raucous abandon. Now Gandalf sat on a table well away from the crowd of young people, his ears pulled back and his eyes bulging in absolute horror at the tragedy that had befallen him.

Thranduil raised his eyebrows as he came to stand beside his son, watching him fiddle with the nibbles that he had ordered in.

“Have a drink, Legolas, you look tense and it’s finally legal for you to do so,” Thranduil grabbed hold of the neck of a bottle of wine.

“I don’t actually turn eighteen for another…” Legolas frowned and glanced at the clock hanging on the opposite wall. He had taken his first breath at eight o’clock precisely, “…five minutes.”

Thranduil sighed and began to open the wine anyway. He’d never known Legolas to turn down his wine; it was obvious that he was quite upset.

“You don’t like them,” Legolas said, low enough so that his voice didn’t travel through to the crowd that loitered in the living area. Peals of boisterous laughter filtered into the kitchen as someone recounted a particularly funny anecdote about Legolas that involved a soggy mop, half a bag of marshmallows and a rubber chicken.

Thranduil raised a single, heavy brow and began to uncork the wine. If Legolas didn’t want any he would be more than willing to drain the lot. “They just seem…” he began, but trailed off. “You’re just…” he tried again, “You just seem a bit more mature than they are.”

Legolas was about to open his mouth to defend them when Thranduil’s point was illustrated by one of his friends making a particularly emphatic farting noise in the other room. All Legolas could do was sigh and continue rearranging food.

He looked up as the doorbell trilled, but Thranduil beat him to it, “I’ll get it, stop messing with those and take them through.”

Thranduil loathed entertaining at the best of times, even when his company was refined, elegant and well mannered. A bunch of rowdy teenagers in his living room was close to the worst scenario he could ever imagine. And now another had arrived at his door.

Thranduil opened the door rather abruptly, annoyed at having his flat overrun by hooligans, and startled the petite young girl who waited patiently behind it. She squeaked in rather an unladylike manner when she was suddenly confronted by the tall, imposing figure of Thranduil. Though she could see she had arrived at the correct flat, owing to Legolas’ astonishing resemblance to his father, she wished she hadn’t. The stormy look that the tall artist gave her made her instantly nervous.

“Your coat.” Thranduil said, holding out his hand. The girl shrugged out of her jacket clumsily, withering under Thranduil’s gaze. Eventually, she placed the article of clothing into his hand, blinking furiously.

Thranduil held his scowl for a few moments, before he registered the scared look on the young girl’s face and sighed, resigned to his fate. He stepped aside from the doorway and motioned behind him, “Legolas is in the living room,” he said.

The small girl darted past him with wide eyes, practically running through the flat to the safety of her friends. Thranduil hung his head as he shut the door. He and Legolas had gotten on so well that something was bound to come unstuck; and here it was - his silly friends. Perhaps this was the end of the easy friendship that they’d built? Maybe Legolas would not be able to look past the fact that his father could not get along with his friends?

This thought was what gave Thranduil the strength to walk back into the living room. He had to try, at least. He had to, for Legolas. He didn’t want to lose what they had, not when he had become so attached to his son. He hadn’t even realised how lonely he had been until Legolas had stumbled into his life.

Thranduil put on a smile as he entered the living room, dropping the girl’s coat down haphazardly. But the strained expression fell from his face almost immediately. The tiny, pretty girl was greeting his son coyly, reaching up to peck Legolas on the cheek and push a small present into his hands. It was her face as she pulled away that caused Thranduil’s expression to falter. Love-struck was the only way to describe her: utterly smitten. Thranduil’s expression grew even stormier when he noticed that Legolas looked away coyly from the kiss, as if he was embarrassed. Embarrassed because he was taken with her also? Embarrassed at such a display of affection in front of his friends?

Thranduil felt an unfamiliar, low coil of resentment settle in his stomach. He didn’t know why, but the feeling dropped lower and intensified when Legolas met his eyes from across the room. They stared at each other for a long moment before Legolas averted his eyes and pretended to listen intently to something the girl was saying.

Thranduil swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and spun around, heading for the safety of the kitchen. Like his son had been doing only moments ago, Thranduil began to arrange food absently, preparing the next tray of nibbles.

“Adar?” Legolas made Thranduil twitch in fright. He had been engrossed in his thoughts and had not noticed his son follow him as soon as he’d retreated to the kitchen area. Gandalf, as usual, was not far behind Legolas, leaping up to the kitchen table and balancing precariously on one of the corners, his fat, furry tummy hanging over the edge.

“I think we’ll start heading out now,” Legolas said softly. Thranduil nodded without really registering what Legolas was saying. Foreign emotions were still coursing through him, causing his heart to thump painfully against his rib cage.  Perhaps it was some sort of fatherly instinct kicking in? Perhaps he wanted to protect his son? Yes; that had to be it.

“Adar?” Legolas said once more, this time reaching a hand out and laying it over one of his father’s. Thranduil froze at his son’s touch; Legolas’ smooth skin felt as though it was burning, searing into him; an electric touch. But it was only for a moment and Thranduil thought he had imagined it.

Thranduil blinked once at Legolas’ searching gaze, and nodded his assent.

“I won’t be back too late, I promise,” Legolas said, his hand still resting atop his father’s. Thranduil nodded once more, his mouth unable to form words. Legolas smiled, but his eyes were troubled as he slipped his hand from his father and turned to leave. Thranduil watched him go, his temples beginning to pound in pain. Neither of them noticed that the clock on the wall read one minute past eight.

**§§§**

Thranduil was half asleep when it happened. He’d been tossing and turning for most of the night, his mind caught up in confusing and tangled thoughts even as his body felt drained from the evening’s activities. He had finally started to drift off when the first wave of nausea hit him.

His eyes flew open as his stomach flipped over, the remnants of his dinner churning. He frowned as the feeling abated slightly and then clamped a hand over his mouth as it returned, the feeling of his insides contracting painfully causing him to gag.

He threw his bed sheets away and got to his feet shakily, his hand still clutched over his mouth. His eyes widened as he began to retch; burning, acrid bile ascending his throat and filling the back of his mouth. He staggered over to his bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he threw up all that he had eaten into the porcelain bowl.

Thranduil fell to his knees, his hands gripping the sides of the toilet until his knuckles distended and his fingers ached. He threw up over and over, his stomach completely rebelling against whatever he had placed inside of it. Eventually, there was nothing left in him, and he gagged and retched only clear fluid into the toilet.

He didn’t know how long he stayed wrapped around the toilet, though it was long enough for an inquisitive Gandalf to poke his head around his master’s bathroom door. He turned up his twitching nose at the unpleasant smell that filled his nostrils, before stalking away from Thranduil’s crumpled form, meowing loudly in annoyance at being woken up for a reason other than food.

Thranduil did not notice the cat; he barely noticed where his was, or what was happening around him. All he could concentrate on was the way his stomach flipped and clenched, and the pounding that had set up a rhythm on the inside of his skull.

His vision was blurred when he finally picked himself up from the floor, his stomach still making him dry heave nothing. He felt rather than saw where he was going as he stumbled back to his bed, flopping down on the opulent sheets. He was exhausted and in incredible pain. He thought about taking some painkillers, but knew he’d never be able to keep them down.

Eventually, after he rolled himself into a pathetic, shivering ball, Thranduil fell asleep; his spent body eventually giving in to the pull of oblivion. It was by no means a peaceful sleep, and his mind tortured him with images of cats with party hats, marshmallows, Legolas making out with an unusually pretty rubber chicken, and of himself throwing up.

Thranduil’s sleep, while restless, was deep, and he didn’t wake when Legolas stumbled into the flat, banging the front door closed in his haste. He stumbled through the space, his hand clutched over his mouth, and burst into the guest bathroom, emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. What the fuck had he eaten that had made him so sick? None of his friends had been feeling ill, and they’d had more to drink than he had.

Legolas began to tremble as his stomach rebelled, and he retched over and over again. Gandalf, now having been woken for the second time, stalked into the bathroom to see what all the fuss was about.  When Gandalf realized that it was Legolas who was taken ill, he immediately entered a panicked state of being. He did all he could to make the young man feel better, winding his way between Legolas’ thighs as he kneeled on the floor, rubbing his furry body against him. He mewled softly, whining in worry and tickling the tip of his nose against one of Legolas’ trembling arms. Despite feeling horrific, Legolas reached a shaky hand down to stroke Gandalf between the ears, assuring the fat cat that he was all right between bouts of nausea.

Eventually, when his stomach had no more bile to give, Legolas staggered to his feet, a worried Gandalf cradled in his arms. The cat snuggled against Legolas; though his best friend smelled of booze and vomit, Gandalf did not care. He was too worried about Legolas to mind that he no longer smelled like a cookie.

Legolas stumbled through the flat, his head pounding in pain and barely able to see. His eyes felt as though they were on fire, and they scratched the back of his eyelids whenever he blinked. All the shapes around him merged together as he dragged himself, and a worried Gandalf, through to a bedroom. He couldn’t really see what he was doing, and moved purely on instinct.

Legolas was so tired, and so weak from dragging himself home and throwing up the contents of his stomach, he did not even register the soft, questioning mew that Gandalf meowed against him. Nor did he take any notice of the rather louder, rather confused hiss that the cat let out when he reached the bed. Legolas stood in front of it, swaying for a moment as he worked up the strength to chuck the fat, mewing cat onto the bed.

Unfortunately, Legolas miscalculated the strength needed to haul Gandalf up, and his addled mind and Gandalf’s added weight threw him off balance. He landed hard on the bed, sprawled half on the silky sheets with his legs hanging over the side. He moaned softly and dragged the rest of his body onto the bed, rolling himself up into the foetal position and shivering.

Gandalf righted himself after being unceremoniously chucked onto the bed and looked around him mistrustfully. He whined a low, morose mewl at Legolas, but he had already fallen into a fitful, restless sleep. Gandalf looked around himself for a moment, wondering if it was safe, before he padded over to Legolas and curled up beside him. While he trusted his best friend, he made sure to angle himself so that he could keep one eye on the sleeping form of Thranduil. Why Legolas had decided to sleep alongside his master, he would never know.  


	4. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil awakes, feeling nauseous and with a pounding headache, and discovers something that turns his world upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***smiles***
> 
> Hi! Here is the next chapter. As you can probably guess, I'm naming chapters by the electro-magnetic spectrum :) Hee! :) Here is where things start to take an... angsty... turn O.o 
> 
> A huge thanks to [ofplanet_earth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth) for the beta on this one. I suspect she prevented me from appearing an idiot with all the medical stuff <3 Check out her Barduil soulmates fic [Inexplicable](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4243284/chapters/9601314), it's amazing. Also, I had this whole chapter ready for beta on Wednesday evening and... yeah the whole thing got corrupted. So this is actually the second draft of Red, which I wrote like a maniac. And ofplanet_earth kindly put up with the late beta submission and corrected what I can only assume was a shitload of grammar and typos <3
> 
> Anyway, enjoy <3

* * *

Red /rɛd/ _adjective_ : a form of electromagnetic radiation with a predominant wavelength of roughly 620–740 nm.

 

Thranduil could not recall ever having had such a wonderful, beautiful dream. Though he could not remember what it had been about, the feeling of it was so pleasant —tingly and fluffy, not too hot, not too cold, just —perfect. He wished to stay cocooned in it forever. He felt complete and without worry for the first time in his life and it was glorious.

Thranduil could not recall ever having woken up feeling so terrible. He was pulled from his beautiful dream by a thin beam of sunlight that coursed through a tiny gap in his bedroom curtains. He moaned and rolled over, his sore body coming into harsh focus as the pain from the night before reappeared. Though it was dulled somewhat, the clenching of his stomach was ever present and he nearly retched again.

Thranduil scrunched his brow together and flopped one of his forearms across his eyes, shielding them from the light that trickled over them. He was just working up the motivation to get up and tug the curtains properly closed when he felt something move on the bed —something that was definitely not him.

Thranduil froze immediately, panic constricting his throat. After a moment he ripped his arm away from his eyes, pushing himself up onto his elbows in a single movement that had his head spinning. Gandalf got such a fright at the sudden movement of his master that he promptly fell off of the side of the bed. He landed with a dull thwack and mewed in shock, righting his fat, furry body with much effort. The cat skulked from the room, hissing lowly in absolute disdain for his master.

Thranduil’s sleepy eyes widened in shock as he realised that Legolas was in his bed. He blinked in surprise, wondering if he was still dreaming. His son was curled up next to him, his face half buried in a pillow and his nose resting against Thranduil’s silk-covered shoulder. He did not waken when Gandalf yelped. His brow twitched and his nose scrunched slightly, but he remained steadfastly asleep.

Thranduil, still at a loss as to why Legolas was in his bed, smiled down at his son in a mixture of confusion and happiness. Legolas was inordinately beautiful when he slept, even when he frowned and snuffled and wriggled closer to Thranduil, he was serenity incarnate.

Thranduil momentarily forgot about how awful he felt, how his head pounded and his eyes burned, and reached out a weakened hand to Legolas. He suddenly felt this inexplicable, inescapable need to touch him. He did not know why he felt so drawn to his sleeping son, nor did he know why he felt that same warm fuzziness from his dream when he looked at Legolas. Taking infinite care not to wake him, Thranduil grazed his fingers against Legolas’ cheek, his fingers gently tickling him. A small smile spread across Thranduil’s lips and he extended his hand further, cupping Legolas’ tranquil face and brushing his thumb over the crease of his lips.

Legolas was having the most wonderful dream of his entire life. He couldn’t quite figure out what was so different about this particular dream, but it sparkled with an effervescence that he had never experienced before. Everything shimmered and shined and was so very… different. Suddenly, the dream was made even more glorious as the image of his father appeared, walking out from the swirling haze of his dream towards him.

Legolas smiled at dream-Thranduil as he came to a stop in front of him, bringing his hands up and cupping Legolas’ face in an uncharacteristic show of affection. Legolas closed his eyes, breathing the dream in. His father was searing hot to the touch and, though it tingled and burned, Legolas did not pull away. He stepped even closer, opening his eyes once more to look up at Thranduil.

His father smiled down at him, his eyes swirling and churning with a quality that Legolas could not even begin to fathom. Thranduil leaned down toward him, his face millimetres form Legolas’ own, and he brushed his nose against the smooth skin of his son’s. Legolas felt heat pool around his cheeks and he raised his hands, gripping his father’s face desperately. Thranduil moved his large hands to hold Legolas’ wrists in an iron grip, his eyes searing into his son’s. Legolas felt shivers course up his arms and around his neck as Thranduil leaned even further forwards, his breath ghosting over Legolas slightly parted lips.

Suddenly, dream-Thranduil was pulled away from Legolas, yanked backwards into the abyss of his rapidly darkening dream. Legolas fumbled about for his father, opened his mouth to shout for him, but no sound passed his lips. Legolas gulped in deep breaths as his vision was taken from him. He groped helplessly in the darkness, searching for Thranduil, crying out with no sound, trying to regain that incredible feeling he’d had, but to no avail.

Thranduil quirked an eyebrow as he slipped his hand from Legolas’ cheek. His son let out a small whimper and tried to follow the hand, curling in to his father in the process. Thranduil watched as Legolas searched for him, eventually moving as close as he could and resting his cheek against Thranduil’s arm. He let out a long, contented sigh before smiling softly and stilling his movements. Thranduil hesitated. He had very little experience with showing affection, yet Legolas brought out a strange, protective urge in him. He didn’t think about it, he didn’t question himself; he did it before he could talk himself out of it.

He leaned down, slowly at first and then growing bolder. Gently, delicately, he placed a small kiss where Legolas’ soft hair met his pale scalp. Thranduil’s stomach constricted and then dropped, but this time not from the sickness he was feeling. He pulled back abruptly, the scent of Legolas’ hair making his mind stutter.

Surprised by what he had done, Thranduil slowly extracted himself from Legolas’ cuddles, sliding off of his bed with a practised ease. He slipped his feet into his slippers and pulled a silken robe over his silk pyjamas before he paused to look at his still-sleeping son. Had Legolas been so drunk the night before, that he had mistaken Thranduil’s bedroom for his own? Why hadn’t he noticed that his son had crawled into bed with him? Why did it feel so… comfortable, to wake up with next to him? Thranduil shook his head, dismissed his errant thoughts and pulled his robe around himself tighter. He should let his son sleep; Legolas did look quite exhausted from the night he’d had.

Though Thranduil still felt terrible, he knew that he should try and eat something. His weakened body was crying out for sustenance. Perhaps some toast and a cup of coffee would sate his hunger and settle his stomach? Toast was always a safe option, and perhaps Legolas would wake up when he smelled the brewing of the coffee. He usually did. Thranduil threw one last look at his sleeping son before he turned and headed slowly for the kitchen, one hand clenched over his churning stomach.

Thranduil wandered out into the expanse of his flat rubbing his eyes. The light that was streaming in from the windows caused his still-sensitive eyes to burn and itch unbearably. He huffed out a long, exasperated sigh as he popped bread into the toaster and a coffee pod into his fancy coffee machine. He wondered if he should chance some butter. He never enjoyed the bland scratchiness of plain toast, and butter always made everything better.

As usual when food was being prepared, Gandalf appeared suddenly, like a ninja materialising from the darkness. The fat cat sat on a counter far enough away from Thranduil to dart away if needed, yet still be and close enough to have a good view of the food preparation. While toast was by no means Gandalf’s favourite, butter certainly was. He watched with wide, excited eyes as Thranduil pulled a block of butter from the fridge and laid it next to where he would spread it on his toast.

Perhaps today was the perfect day for a butter heist? It would be easy to jump onto the other counter and take a lick at the butter. It would be less easy to avoid Thranduil’s furious swipes, but his master did look decidedly sick that day. Perhaps he would be too slow, to sluggish to catch him. If there ever was the perfect day for such an attempt, surely it was that day. Gandalf narrowed his eyes and lowered his head, preparing himself.

Gandalf appeared on the counter next to Thranduil abruptly, jerking his elbow inwards with the sheer girth of his fat body. Gandalf, sensing victory, licked out at the block of butter. But the cat had severely miscalculated his trajectory and his eyes widened as he continued to slide across the counter. He tried to correct his mistake, his little paws scrabbling furiously at the smooth granite surface, but his momentum sent him flying over the edge. Gandalf let out a mew of terror as he fell to the floor for the second time that day.

A haze of anger descended over Thranduil when he realised what his cat had done. He was tired, feeling awful and all he wanted was a quiet morning without any of Gandalf’s antics. He cursed violently, about to chase after the furry ball of lard when he noticed something odd about his right hand. It became obvious that when Gandalf had knocked his elbow, the butter knife had gouged into his other hand, creating a large, jagged wound that had started to spurt blood. Thranduil had been so startled and so furious, that he had not even registered it happening.

But that was not what caught his attention. He raised his hand, his eyes growing wide as his blood pooled between his fingers and trickled down his arm. It soaked into his silk pyjamas and robe, staining them irreversibly. The blood was coming thick and fast, he’d obviously hit some sort of vessel. He gulped as he stared at his own blood flowing from him. It looked… it was… not normal. It was not how his blood usually looked —not how it was supposed to look. Thranduil blinked his eyes furiously, trying to clear his vision, but the strange sight did not disappear.

What the fuck was he seeing?

It was if his blood was… shimmering? No, that wasn’t right. It was gleaming in some unknown, indescribable way. Thranduil’s eyes widened and his jaw unhinged as the phenomenon he was seeing grew more intense. He stared down at his hand, completely oblivious to the fact that his blood was still flowing and that the wound he had sustained had begun throb dully. He felt his battered body becoming even weaker from blood loss, but he could do nothing but stare.

Gandalf, having expected his master to chase him around the flat in anger, hopped up onto the counter again only this time, he stuck the landing. He extended his fat neck, peering over Thranduil’s shoulder at what it was that was preventing his master from scolding him. His little eyes widened as he saw that Thranduil was staring at his own hand. The day had finally come; Thranduil had truly lost his mind. Gandalf glanced to the forgotten butter, edging towards it.

Thranduil came to his senses abruptly as he realised that his vision was narrowing, the edges of his sight becoming black and fuzzy. He hurriedly grabbed the closest kitchen cloth, pressing it to the wound in his hand to stem the flow. He gasped in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His blood began to soak through the cloth almost immediately and he gaped once more at the strange appearance of it. He must be going mad. There must be something terribly, terribly wrong with him. This was not normal. Only one thought blared in his mind as he stumbled towards his bedroom, the cloth still clasped in his hands. Help. He needed help. And there was only one thing for it.

“Legolas,” Thranduil gasped as he stumbled into his bedroom, leaning heavily against the closet. “Legolas… wake up…”

His son did not wake, but merely pulled himself into a tighter ball, moaning at the disturbance that Thranduil was causing. He snuffled and rolled over, his eyelids fluttering.

“Legolas,” Thranduil tried again, his vision swimming. “I have to… Legolas I’m going to the…” he gasped, his head beginning to pound and his wound throbbing almost unbearably. When Legolas did not respond Thranduil sighed and began to strip out of his bloody clothes.

Legolas was in the strange place between sleep and waking. His eyes cracked open, the world he saw hazy and bright and dream-like. He sighed and tried to focus, but the sight he saw made no sense to him. Why was his father in his bedroom? And why was he… naked? Legolas forced his eyes open wider. His heart leapt into his throat when his vision became clearer, it was indeed his father who was changing right in front of him. Legolas opened his mouth to say something, but his words died in his throat. His brain could only focus on the sight of his father’s strong thighs, his tight ass and the endless expanse of his toned, pale back. Legolas blinked a few times, his vision clouding over once more as he was pulled from the waking world and back under the surface into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Thranduil’s wounded hand shook as he tried to button up his jeans. Eventually he succeeded in pulling on respectable clothes, leaving his stained pyjamas and robe crumpled next to his closet. He stumbled through his flat, his hand still wrapped in the bloody kitchen cloth and, fumbling, managed to shrug on a coat and make it out of the door. He didn’t remember tripping down the hallway, or the elevator ride down to the lobby. He didn’t even remember flagging down a cab and hopping inside, nor did he remember the startled look that the cab driver had given him when he noticed the sheer amount of blood that had soaked into the cloth. The next coherent thought that Thranduil had was when he was sitting on a hard, uncomfortable chair in the waiting room of A&E at his local hospital.

**§§§**

“Mister… Or-o-pher-i-on? Did I get that right?”

Thranduil raised his head slowly, his temples pounding. He was sat in a small, curtained-off cubicle on the most uncomfortable bed in the entire world. The thin mattress dug into his thighs as he sat, hunched over and his legs dangling over the edge.

“My name is Fíli and I’ll be your doctor today. What seems to be the problem?” the doctor gave Thranduil a large, warm smile, the edges of his mouth disappearing into the corners of his light, scruffy beard.

Great. Just great. The cheeriest doctor ever, just what he needed. Thranduil blinked the haziness from his eyes and gave the doctor an exasperated look before he held up his hand, still clutching the bloody kitchen cloth.

The doctor raised an eyebrow at the wound and then shouted over his shoulder, “Kíli!” He turned to Thranduil again with the same cheery smile and began peeling the cloth away from his hand. Thranduil flinched as clots were pulled from the wound, causing it to begin bleeding anew.

“Doctor, I think there might be something else-” Thranduil began, but he was cut off by an equally cheery male nurse breezing in to his cubicle. He was darker in complexion that the doctor, but had an equally scruffy beard. The scrubs he wore were a size too small, and they clung to him tightly.

“No need to shout,” the nurse said, smiling at Thranduil. Good god, he couldn’t take this much cheerfulness when he felt so terrible; it wasn’t natural.

“Mister Oropherion here is in need of some stitches. Would you kindly fetch me a bottle of saline, a local anaesthetic and absorbable suture?” the doctor said, scrutinising Thranduil’s wound. The nurse leaned in over the doctor’s shoulder for a closer look, grimacing dramatically with a whispered ‘ouch,’ before smiling at Thranduil. He turned to retrieve supplies, the curtain flourishing behind him.

“Don’t worry,” Fíli said, “it’s not too bad, I’ll have you cleaned up in no time.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened as the doctor turned his attention back to the wound. It was not the words that startled him, but the way they… looked. When Fíli talked he could see the same type of shimmering swirls that he saw in his blood. When he spoke, tendrils of effervescence spilled from his mouth, winding through the air and dissipating around him. Oh dear god. There was definitely something terribly, terribly wrong with him. If he was dying, Thranduil would be sure to come back and haunt that stupid, fat tub of lard that passed as a cat.

“Doctor,” Thranduil managed to stutter out, “I think… I think there’s something else.”

Fíli frowned and fixed Thranduil with a stern stare as Kíli returned with a tray of instruments. “Something else?”

“Yes,” Thranduil said, looking down to his hand, “It’s… it’s the blood. My blood. It doesn’t look how it’s supposed to. It doesn’t look as it normally does.” He felt like an idiot, not being able to express himself, but he just didn’t have the words.

Fíli paused for a moment, ruminating over Thranduil’s words, before he said slowly, “Do you normally see your blood quite often?”

Thranduil sighed. Great; now the doctor thought he’d hurt himself on purpose. Thranduil cringed as Fíli cleaned his hand and began the process of stitching it up. With all the blood washed away, the wound was surprisingly small.

“No,” Thranduil said, trying to make him understand, “I’ve been feeling horrible since last night… and then my stupid gluttonous cat decided to make a break for the butter… and my hand slipped and there was so much blood. But the blood… it’s different.” Thranduil’s eyes pleaded with him to understand, to help him. “Don’t you see? Can’t you see that it’s not the same?” Thranduil looked to the discarded kitchen cloth that lay sadly on the bed next to him, “Can’t you see that my blood is not right? It’s different to anything else?”

The nurse stood in the corner, his brow furrowing as he listened. The tall, beautiful stranger looked absolutely stricken, his eyes begging for someone to understand what was happening to him. Kíli’s eyes darted to the cloth, then back to Thranduil. Could it be-? No. Surely not.

The doctor narrowed his eyes at Thranduil for a second, before he gave him the most reassuring smile he could muster. “I see, yes. I understand Mister Oropherion; it’s nothing to worry about. Nurse, would you meet me in the dispensary when we’re through here?”

The doctor worked quickly after that, finishing the stitches in Thranduil’s hand and hurriedly following the nurse out of the cubicle. Thranduil sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes for a second. Though he couldn’t accurately describe what was happening to him, perhaps he’d said enough for the doctor to realise what it was? Perhaps it wasn’t so serious? Maybe he could simply take a pill, go home and sleep it off. He thought of Legolas, still in his bed and curled up waiting for him. He smiled softly. Yes, he just needed a good night’s rest. Maybe he could just slide into bed with Legolas again and drift off into oblivion. That sounded like the best idea in the world to Thranduil’s addled brain, the thought of his son somehow soothing the tumultuous raging of his mind.

Thranduil was rudely pulled from his musings when Kíli burst in to his cubicle, nervously shutting the curtains behind him. He rushed over to Thranduil, hastily wrapping his cleaned and stitched hand up in a bandage. The nurse looked utterly fearful as he dropped his voice and said, “Okay, I’m going to finish this, and then you need to leave. Do you understand? You need to leave now.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened and he cringed as Kíli wrapped his hand just a little too tight. He ignored the odd, swirling things that also came from Kíli’s mouth for a moment in favour of puzzling over his words, “Excuse me?”

“The doctor wants to admit you to the psych ward, he thinks you’re nuts. He’s just getting the paperwork. You need to follow me now, okay? Now!” Kíli said, scooping Thranduil’s coat and the discarded cloth up and shoving it into his arms. Thranduil was about to protest, but it was then that he noticed the wild, scared look in Kíli’s eyes. He followed the nurse without hesitation, shrugging his coat on and stuffing the cloth into his pocket as they navigated seemingly endless winding corridors. Kíli kept throwing worried glances over his shoulder, but moved swiftly, eventually leading Thranduil to an emergency exit.

Kíli slid his access card over the swipe-pad, letting the door swing open without any fuss. Thranduil blinked into the blinding daylight that assaulted his tender eyes. “Wait,” Thranduil said, turning to Kíli, “Wait, I’m not making any of this up. There is something wrong with me… maybe I need to be where he wants to put me?”

Kíli sighed, threw a look over his shoulder nervously and said, “There’s nothing wrong with you. If you’re still feeling nauseous that only means that you’ve touched them recently, probably within the last twenty four hours.”

Thranduil made to argue, to insist that there was something deeply, terribly wrong with him, when Kíli’s words sunk in. What? Touched who? Kíli saw the look of utter confusion on Thranduil’s face and sighed once more, reaching for the cord that hung around his neck. He pulled the necklace out from under his too-tight scrubs, exposing the tiny heart-shaped locket that dangled at the end of it. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said, opening the locket and staring down sadly at its contents.

Thranduil’s eyes widened, what lay in the locket was smoother, more solid than what he saw when he looked at his blood, but it was made of the same… thing. It was the same.

“The colour you’re seeing is called red; it always begins with red. There’s nothing the matter with you. In fact, you’re more alive than you’ve ever been. You’ve found your soul mate.” Kíli gave the locket one last, mournful look, unable to see the colour there anymore. He snapped it shut, pushing Thranduil out of the emergency exit and onto the pavement.

Thranduil’s first instinct was to laugh. Colours? Red? Soul mates? This nurse was in need of the psych ward himself. This was the stuff of fairy-tales, stories that mothers told their children to help them sleep at night. They were for people who were dissatisfied and searching for some deeper meaning in their lives. They were not real.

Trust his luck to get saddled with the crazy nurse.

“Go, now. I’ll make sure that your paperwork gets lost so that they can’t find you,” Kíli said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. He shoved the scrap into Thranduil’s good hand and said, “The nausea will pass. Don’t let anyone know what you can see; they’ll think you’re crazy. Call the number on that piece of paper, he’ll help you.”

Thranduil opened his mouth, ready to ask Kíli if he’d escaped from the mental ward, but the exit’s door was slammed in his face, cutting him off. Thranduil looked down to the ragged piece of paper in his hand, blinked in confusion and pulled his coat tighter around himself. He began to walk towards the main street, hoping to flag down a cab there. His head raced with thoughts.

Obviously Kíli was a lunatic. Soul mates were a children’s story, how could he be expected to believe in such a thing? And anyway, even if it was true, he hated physical contact and he never touched anyone, as a rule. The only person he ever let touch him was…

Thranduil stopped dead. His blood ran cold and hot at the same time. He tugged at the collar of his coat, battling to breathe all of a sudden. Oh god. No.

Legolas.

**§§§**

Legolas felt warm and fuzzy when he awoke, something rubbing at his stomach pulling him from his sleep. He smiled and shifted, reaching downwards. His fingertips met the soft, furry coat of Gandalf and the fat cat began to purr immediately. Legolas smiled and dragged the cat upwards, cuddling him in the way he knew that he liked most. Gandalf wriggled and let out a small burp, causing Legolas to open his eyes.

Gandalf stared up at Legolas with huge, wet eyes, sparkling with happiness. Smeared around his furry cheeks and nose was the butter that he had been after earlier that morning. Legolas stared for a moment, confused, and then laughed. The cat was an absolute glutton. He swiped at Gandalf’s mouth, wiping away the bits of butter that clung to his whiskers. His father would be livid.

Legolas blinked. The light streaming in through the curtains heralded that it was well into the morning, and Thranduil was usually up and making coffee by now. Legolas rubbed at his scratchy eyes and sat up, pulling Gandalf with him. It was only then that he realised where he was.

Legolas looked around him, his shocked eyes roving around his father’s bedroom. Though he’d only been in the space once before, it was unmistakable. It was infinitely neater than his own room, with everything in its place. Thranduil also had a fondness for silk sheets, and the soft material clung to Legolas’ body, sticking to the clothes he’d worn last night. Oh god, why was he in his father’s bedroom? In his father’s bed? Why didn’t he remember? Legolas turned slightly, looking up at the painting that hung above the bed. It was a photorealistic rendering of a man’s nude back, half in shadows and half in light.

Then he remembered. At least, he thought he did. Had his father come in earlier? Had he tried to tell him something? Had he… changed, right in front of him? Why could he remember seeing his father’s naked back? Why could he remember the way that Thranduil’s thighs met his—

Legolas blinked, his thoughts interrupted suddenly, why were his father’s pyjamas crumpled on the ground? And why did they look so — Legolas blinked once more — why did they look so odd? His father could not stand such messiness — something was wrong. Legolas moved Gandalf, ignoring his meowing protests, and slipped from Thranduil’s bed.

He picked up the silk pyjamas and robe, mesmerised by the blood that was splattered over the sleeves and down the front of the top. The shimmering, other-worldly quality of it enthralled Legolas, and he looked closer. He could not explain what he was seeing, he’d never seen anything like it before and did not have the vocabulary for it, but he knew that it was magical. Inherently, he knew that it meant something wonderful. It made his world come alive, and a smile began to creep onto his lips.

The smiled faded as quickly as it appeared when Legolas realised what all the blood meant. Oh god, why was there so much of it? What had happened? Where was his father? Was he okay? A clawing helplessness invaded his mind. He felt ill at the thought of his father being injured, as though his heart may explode.

Legolas whipped around, intending to search the flat for his father, and stopped abruptly. There, in the doorway to his bedroom, Thranduil stood. His coat was still around his shoulders and his one hand was bandaged. He held the injured hand gingerly, his eyes startled at finding Legolas with his blood spattered pyjamas in his hand.

The silken garments slipped from Legolas’ grasp and he choked out, “Adar… are you okay? I saw the stains… and I… what happened?”

Thranduil did not answer his son. He’d been standing in the doorway long enough for his worst suspicions to be confirmed. Though Legolas had reacted very differently than he had, there was no mistaking the look of confusion and wonder in his eyes when he had examined the blood. He recognised the emotions visible in Legolas’ eyes.

No. No… he didn’t even believe in this sort of thing. But how could he deny it now? When they were both experiencing the same thing?

Oh god. No. It was Legolas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! It is much appreciated! Let me know what you think! All constructive criticism is welcome <3**
> 
> If you'd like to see more fan art, my tumblr is [plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)


	5. Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas desperately tries to find out who his soulmate is, while Thranduil languishes in a deep state of denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***bounces***
> 
> Hi! Here is the new chapter! I am away this weekend because it is my birthday on Monday, and I probably wont be able to do any writing or get any art done. Consequently, chapter 6 may be a day or two late next week, though I will try my very hardest to get it out on Friday <3 I would really appreciate some feedback from readers this week, it'll be the best birthday gift ever!
> 
> The awesome [ofplanet_earth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/profile) was awesome to beta this chapter, even though she's very busy with her Halloween costume ;) I appreciate it so much! <3
> 
> I also have a new Barduil fic that I've started, if you like that sort of thing check it out here: [Springs Eternal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5088264/chapters/11699763). Bard is a reincarnated Elf ;)
> 
> Also, I will be posting my Thrandolas Halloween Special 'Things That Go Bump in the Night' tomorrow morning. Happy Halloween everyone! <3
> 
> I hope you like the art for this chapter, I enjoyed making it ;)
> 
> Enjoy! <3

[ ](http://s284.photobucket.com/user/loveactuallyfan91/media/AVS%20Chapter%205_zpsv5kewile.jpg.html)

 

* * *

 Orange /ˈɒrɪn(d)ʒ/ adjective:  a form of  electromagnetic radiation with a predominant  wavelength  of roughly 585–620 nm ; the  colour  between  red  and  yellow  on the  spectrum of light.

Legolas chewed his bottom lip, his teeth worrying the broken skin there. Though the sight displayed in front of him was one of the most wondrous things he’d even laid eyes on, he still could not quash the swirling emotions within him. Legolas was confused; utterly perplexed.

He sighed as he sat up, the wet tips of his hair sticking to his damp chest. Legolas leaned forwards, twisting the knob for hot water. He’d been sitting in the bath, gazing at the sunrise for so long that the water had turned tepid. For the past two days he’d risen before the sun, waiting for it in anticipation of the colours that he would see. While at first it had only been tinges of red at the horizon, he now saw the subtle shades of orange coming in to view.

Legolas leaned back as the hot water warmed his bath again, smiling softly and turning his head to gaze out of the large window that framed the bathtub. The last vestiges of colour burned on the horizon, heralding the new day. Legolas committed every detail of it to memory, knowing that he would not see such a sight again until he could watch the sunset. He couldn’t wait for the other colours. He knew they were there, just waiting for him to be able to see them and he was impatient. Once the sunrise was over, all he would be able to see in the sky was a light, soulless grey.

He hadn’t found very much information about what he was experiencing. Mostly it was conspiracy theories and mad, fanatical ravings about how the government had deliberately removed everyone’s ability to see colour. He paid little attention to such stories and focused on the colours themselves. He knew the names of what he would be seeing, but so far had only been able to see the first two in what the anonymous posts online called the ‘visible spectrum’. He knew the sky was supposed to be blue and that grass and trees were green, but for the life of him, he couldn’t see it. And he wanted to. Now. He’d always been too impatient.

But all that was not what confused Legolas. While he did not quite understand what was happening to him, he understood why. All the scattered, broken pieces of information that he could find in the dark corners of the Internet agreed. He had found his soulmate. Not his soul mate. Soulmate. One word. He had now bonded so inextricably with another person that they were seeing the same glorious world come to life. But he had no idea who it was.

Why he could not tell, he didn’t know; there were no answers online. He had spent the past two days visiting everyone that had attended his eighteenth birthday celebrations, to no avail. At first, he had been sure that it was Tauriel. He had spent the most time with her on his birthday; he had danced most with her. She always looked embarrassed around him and had given him a small, lingering kiss when he had left that night. It had to be her.

But it wasn’t. He had arrived on her doorstep the afternoon after his birthday party. He had made sure his injured Adar was all right; made sure he ate something, and scolded Gandalf half-heartedly for being such a nuisance. His heart had been in his throat as he waited for Tauriel to answer the door. While he hadn’t felt any deep bond between them the night before, maybe he would when he saw her? She was pretty and sweet and seemed to like him a lot. Maybe it would all fall into place the moment she opened the door?

But Legolas had felt no great epiphany as she’d smiled at him; surprised and perhaps confused by his appearance. She must have thought him mad, but he couldn’t stop himself from gaping at her hair. While some of the strands were their usual tone of grey, most of her hair had turned bright red. Legolas marvelled at it, the way it shone and shimmered, but he felt no connection to her. She had invited him in despite his odd behaviour. They’d had tea and he’d tried to surreptitiously decipher whether she could see what he could. But if she had been able to see red, she would have been as fascinated by her own hair as Legolas had been.

He’d stayed a while, making polite conversation, but left shortly after he had finished his tea. He had walked a little, puzzling over who might be his soulmate, before giving up and heading home. When he’d arrived back at the flat, Gandalf was mewing for his supper and Thranduil was curled up in bed, exhausted by the day he’d had. Legolas had made sure his father was comfortable, pulled an extra blanket over him, and fed the gluttonous blob that passed for a cat.

It was then that he had noticed his first sunset. He was enthralled by the wondrous swirls of red light as the sun set over the horizon. It threw colour on everything, the buildings, the trees, and the river. It was absolutely magical. It was also then that he had started to notice pale, red undertones to his skin. He thought it was just the light from the sunset that made his skin glow, but as he looked closer he saw that it was his flesh that was tinged red. No. Not red; it was a paler, more subtle colour.

Legolas had done his research then; found out about the colour’s names and what they were thought to correspond to. The colour he was seeing in his skin was known as pink, a subtle tint of red. Even then, he was eager to see more, knowing something called ‘orange’ would be next.

The next day, Legolas had set out on a mission. Thranduil had been fairly unresponsive in the morning, only rising from his bed to bathe before he holed himself up in his bed once more. Legolas made him a hearty breakfast before he departed. He was worried about his father, unused to seeing the stoic, reserved man laid low by such a thing as a wound to his hand. Legolas had asked if he wanted to paint him? Perhaps it would make him feel better? But Thranduil had mumbled a ‘no’ and curled further into himself, burying his face in his pillow.

While Legolas worried about Thranduil, his mind was preoccupied by his longing to find whom he had bonded wit, and he set out to visit each and every one of the people he may have touched during the night of his birthday. Legolas had never identified as gay, though he wasn’t opposed to the idea. He’d only ever had any experience with girls, but he felt that being bonded to someone would negate any awkwardness he may feel.

He visited Aragorn first. He was his best friend, after all, and definitely not unpleasant to look at. His hopes were high as Aragorn ushered him into his house, whispering that he had something amazing to show him. Unfortunately, it had turned out that he had only found a rather amusing video of a cat in a bathtub, and could see no colours whatsoever. Legolas had stayed for a while, watching dejectedly as his best friend showed him more videos of cats, before he made his excuses and left.

Gimli had been a train wreck. While he hadn’t been able to see any colours, he had noticed that something was bothering Legolas. He didn’t let him leave until he made up some excuse about his father being ill, and even then the short, pudgy teenager did not quite buy it. He’d berated Legolas for living with Thranduil, citing all the time he’d been absent. Legolas, used to this kind of talk from Gimli, had nodded and sighed, but all he wanted to do was move on.

Perhaps Boromir was his soulmate?

He wasn’t, and neither were Frodo, Sam, Pippin or Merry. Legolas had wandered the streets of London, tired and confused. The only people he spent any time with that night were his friends, there wasn’t anyone else to see. Though his search had been fruitless, he had noticed that his perception of red, and now a hazy orange, was dulled. He sat on bench in the park outside his father’s flat and watched the sun set once more. He could make out the shift from red to orange now, and it was glorious, yet somehow when he had watched it from the flat it had seemed brighter. Were the colours fading? Perhaps if he didn’t find his soulmate they would disappear forever?

He had trailed, dejected, up to the flat; throwing himself down on the living room couch and watching the last rays of the sun fade into darkness. Perhaps he was just imagining that they were brighter? Maybe he was just so exhausted that his mind could not process the phenomenon properly. Legolas went to bed tired, confused, and feeling more alone than he’d been in years. What was the point of having a soulmate if he couldn’t find the one he was bonded with? What was the point of these glorious, beautiful colours if he could not share the discovery of them with someone? He had gone to bed that night feeling more alone than ever before.

So now as he sat, the water of his morning bath turning cold around him once more, Legolas was confused; dejected and lost and lonely. All he had for company was Gandalf, who sat at the base of the bath and looked up at him in wonder, as usual. Legolas sighed and reached down, ruffling the cat’s ears with a damp hand. Gandalf hated the water, but loved Legolas’ touch and he endured the wetness despite himself.

Legolas shook his head at the strange cat, “It isn’t you; is it? Are you my soulmate Gandalf?”

The cat merely looked up at him with wide, loving eyes and meowed softly. The fat cat turned his head and licked at the water on Legolas’ hand, his rough tongue tickling his skin. He smiled as he realised that Gandalf’s tongue was a darker shade of the pink than what he’d seen in his own skin. Legolas laughed half-heartedly, his eyes full of sadness. He was officially out of ideas. He’d spoken to everyone he’d touched that night, everyone with whom he’d come into contact, and none of them seemed to be experiencing what he was. He felt robbed. He didn’t precisely know whom he should blame for his situation, but he knew he was angry. How could this happen to him? Was he the only person to ever start seeing colour without knowing who had caused it? It was a horrific experience. He constantly felt as though something was missing and it ached in places inside his chest that he didn’t know were there.

Legolas looked again at Gandalf, whose grey fur sparkled with the remnants of the sun’s red and orange rays. The cat tilted his head, his big eyes sparkling up at Legolas as he let out a squeak; wanting Legolas’ hand back on his head.

Legolas frowned down at Gandalf for a moment, a stray thought entering his head – a stray, depraved thought. It bounced around his mind for a few seconds, causing his eyes widen in shock. No. It couldn’t be. Legolas sat up suddenly, bath water sloshing over the rim of the bath and splashing onto Gandalf’s head. The cat hissed and shook, slinking away from the tub with a murderous expression on his fat, furry face.

Legolas gulped and his mouth dropped open. No. No, he would have said something. He would not have let Legolas languish in such agony. No, it could not be. But he was the last option; he was the only other person that Legolas had touched that night. It must be him. It had to be.

Legolas turned his head, looking at the waning sunrise once more. Clenching his jaw he stood, sending a shower of droplets onto the bathroom floor around him. He faced the window; letting the last few rays of red and orange hit his chest and warm his skin. His mind was whirring, spinning out of control. He should be horrified, disgusted even, but he found that he was neither. His heart flooded with burning warmth at the thought of him. He found that the intensity of the colours he could see increased until they were nearly blinding. Was it his imagination? Was it real? Could it really be him?

Legolas turned away from the one-way glass slowly, stepping from the bath and wrapping himself in a fluffy towel. He didn’t know why he did it; he didn’t have a single coherent thought, let alone a fully-formed plan. It did not stop him from padding through his bathroom, his bedroom, and then down the hall. He pushed his father’s bedroom door open slowly, his eyes adjusting to the gloomy room.

Thranduil was curled up on his bed; his hair spread out over his pillow and shining in the early morning light. Legolas swallowed hard, his throat feeling like sandpaper. His breathing hitched and his heart began to pound violently. Heat spread across his cheeks and down his neck and he squirmed in the doorway. He should have turned around. He shouldn’t have stepped further into the room, shouldn’t have walked over to Thranduil’s prone form, and he definitely should not have sat on the edge of his father’s bed.

But he did, and he sat staring down at his father with a look of wonder. He reached a damp hand out, his fingertips extending to graze the soft skin of Thranduil’s cheek. His father sighed softly and rubbed against his hand, his eyelids fluttering prettily. It seemed as though Thranduil was dreaming and his forehead creased in a small frown. Though Legolas’ mind was muddled and racing furiously, he could not deny that his father was beautiful. He was utterly gorgeous.

Oh god, what if it was him? What would they do? The complications of such a thing would be infinite. What would he say to him? What would they do? Would he allow him to… would he allow it? Would he let Legolas in? Could he let Legolas be that to him? What would he tell his friends? What would his mother have said? It was unfathomable.

Oh god, what if it wasn’t him? What if Legolas tried to explain what he was experiencing and Thranduil was disgusted at him? What if he was not his soulmate, and found the entire idea that Legolas could be seeing colour completely ridiculous? Would he be so enraged that he would throw Legolas out, back onto the cold, harsh streets? Would he call him twisted? Sick? Would he never want to speak to him again? Was it even him? He’d given no indication that he could see anything different. Wouldn’t he have told Legolas? Wouldn’t he have said something?

Legolas bit into the side of his cheek to keep his bottom lip from wobbling as tears filled his eyes; he didn’t want to lose his father, not when they had become so close. Not when he had finally found a home with him. He couldn’t imagine his life without Thranduil, and he didn’t want to.

Legolas made a decision and drew back his hand, standing slowly and backing away from Thranduil. He couldn’t take that chance, not when he had so much to lose. His father had given him so much; he had allowed him into his life, he had fed him and clothed him and supported him. How could he shatter such a thing when he wasn’t sure? How could he take such a chance when, with one sentence, he could forever change their relationship?

No. He couldn’t do it.

**§§§**

Thranduil knew it was wrong, he knew it, but was completely unable to stop what was happening in his mind. His brain seemed to be playing with him, toying with the deep guilt he was feeling. He didn’t know how to stop it, and to his everlasting shame, half of him didn’t want to. It just felt so good. So… natural.

So he let his dream unfold. He ceased fighting his own mind and let himself be swept away into the void of glimmering red where Legolas waited for him. It seemed to Thranduil that his son was swathed in shining robes that swirled around him, his face smiling wide when he approached him. Thranduil was sure he’d never seen anything as beautiful as his young son smiling at him; looking into his eyes as if he was the only being that mattered.

The vision was tinged, weighed down by the guilt that he could not extract from himself, but nevertheless it was glorious. He touched Legolas’ face with a glowing, shaking hand, his palm sliding against his son’s cheek and his fingers tickling the delicate shell of his ear. Legolas leaned in to the touch, his eyes slipping closed as a smile lit up his face.

Thranduil knew he should not feel the urge to kiss his son so strongly; it was sick and twisted and so very wrong. But he was drawn to Legolas like a moth to a flame. He was devouring Legolas’ mouth suddenly, with no warning or coquettish glances. If dream-Legolas was surprised, he didn’t show it. He was kissing his father back with a similar ravenous hunger; sliding his tongue against Thranduil’s with no hesitation, no reticence; just pure want. He tasted delicious, his sweet lips blushing red as Thranduil attacked them; always trying to taste more. Oh god; he tasted perfect, he felt perfect, he was utterly perfect.

Without preamble or explanation, as ever in dreams, Thranduil was pushing Legolas back onto a newly materialised bed. Still devouring his lips he straddled his son, getting as close to him as possible. He tangled his hands in his hair, nipped at his lips in between their kisses, and pushed him down under his dominion. It just felt so right, so utterly natural, that Thranduil did not hesitate when Legolas began to undress him, making quick work of his clothes. Niggling thoughts in the back of his mind screamed out that it was wrong, that he should never do such a thing with his son, soul mates or no. But he continued. He was just ripping Legolas’ pants from his slim hips when he was pulled from the sleep realm and into a harsh world.

When Thranduil woke to his depressingly dulled reality, he was tangled in his bed sheets. He was throbbing, pulsing with want as he lay, staring at the ceiling. He threw a hand over his eyes, trying to block out the harsh truth that now flooded his mind. He tried to calm his breathing, hoping that would quiet his racing heart. He was shaking; his hands were trembling. It had been two unbearable, excruciating nights that he had to endure such dreams. Ever since he’d realised who he’d bonded with they had plagued him. Every night he made sweet, tortuous love to his son in his dreams.

The vestigial effects of his dream were always present when he awoke, his body trembling with burning need. Thranduil reached a hand down and placed it over his throbbing cock. Oh god, why? Why him? Why Legolas? Why now? Why?

To his everlasting shame, he moved his hand over his own arousal, chasing some relief. He gulped and tried to think of something other than the way that Legolas had smiled at him in the dream, or the way that he had blushed sweetly when he looked at him, or the feeling of his soft lips against his. He tried to think of something that was not Legolas, but to no avail.

Thranduil clenched his jaw down tightly, biting the tips of his teeth into the delicate lining of his cheeks. He ripped his hand away from himself abruptly, throwing the covers off of himself and stalking to his bathroom. His dreams had caused him to become hot during the night and so he only wore the bottom half of his silk pyjamas. They were tented obscenely. He ignored the desperate pounding of his erection and ripped the bottoms off, climbing into to the shower and turning the faucet on full blast.

He hung his head and braced his hands against the cool tiles of the shower wall. He let the frigid water pound over his back and trickle down his sides, trying desperately to clear his mind of the depravity that had invaded it. He shut his eyes tightly, the icy water clearing his mind somewhat but doing little to sooth the pounding between his legs. Thranduil heaved a huge sigh, tears of utter despair welling in his eyes. They went unnoticed as they trickled down his cheeks, lost in the downpour of the shower.

He didn’t want to do it, but he realised that he had little choice in the matter. It was his only hope, his only piece of solid information. He needed this to stop; he had to find a way to undo what had been done. He could not be bonded to Legolas. It was not right, it was sick, twisted even. He could not allow it to continue. He could not allow Legolas to find out he’d bonded with his own father. Perhaps he could find a way to undo the bond before Legolas realised that it was him? He had to take charge of the situation that he found himself in.

Thranduil was still half-hard when he exited the shower, his wet hair sticking to his muscular shoulders and chest. He wrapped a towel haphazardly around his slim hips, folding it over at the top hurriedly so that it wouldn’t fall down. He stepped back in to his bedroom and fumbled about in his bedside table for a few moments, eventually extracting the piece of paper that the nurse at the hospital had given him.

Thranduil sat down on his bed, slowly sinking in to the mattress. He gazed at the digits written on the scrap of paper. It was an out-of-town number and he did not recognise the area code. He scowled at paper for a few more seconds before he heaved an exasperated sigh and reached for his mobile, punching in the numbers. He held the phone to his ear he waited for an answer. Though Thranduil was by no means religious, he found himself asking any gods that may have been listening to help him. This was his last hope.

His heart leapt as the call connected and a smooth male voice answered.


	6. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Thranduil go on journeys of discovery. Thranduil finds out what has been happening to him, while Legolas has his suspicions about his father confirmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***tries to look inconspicuous***
> 
> Hi! I'm back! Here is the next chapter. It is just about double the length of a regular chapter because I missed last Fridays update :) I decided to take my time and rework the plans I had for this chapter because the information presented is very important for the storyline. Also, the response to the previous chapter was fairly muted, so I wanted to make sure I got this right so as to not disappoint. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it, and I hope that my head canon comes through well. This chapter is unbetaed, so all the mistakes are mine.
> 
> Enjoy x

* * *

Yellow / ˈjɛləʊ/ _adjective_ : a form of electromagnetic radiation with a predominant wavelength of roughly 570–590 nm. Thecolourbetweenorangeandgreen on thespectrum of light.

 

Legolas had never felt more alone - not in his eighteen years breathing air had he ever felt so desolate. And it was all because of him - or, more accurately, the lack of him. As the train Legolas was riding clattered down the tracks of the underground, he swayed with the back and forth rattling of the car. He was lost in his thoughts and he did not notice the progression of his journey. He was consumed by the loneliness that was clawing away at the inside of his chest.

He had woken up that morning to an empty apartment. Apart from Gandalf, who was watching him sleep when he woke up - as usual. The cat had followed him, mewing for his breakfast, when he had searched his father’s flat. It seemed that Thranduil had woken early, well before the sunrise, and had left the apartment with only a short note tacked to the fridge as an explanation.

_Gone for the day. Food in the fridge._

Legolas had the scrawled note tucked inside his coat pocket as he travelled through London. He didn’t know why he had taken it with him, but the closeness of his father’s handwriting eased the uneasy feeling in his heart.

Legolas played with a strand of his hair as he hurtled through the tunnels under the city. He looked down at it in muted fascination. He had apparently started to see another colour – yet what should have been an exciting, joyous discovery was contorted into a painful experience. He had no one to breathlessly show that his hair seemed to be a pale, pale shade of yellow. He had no one to run their fingers across his scalp. He had no one to play with the shimmering softness of his hair. He had no one to marvel at how his long hair glowed in the sunlight.

Legolas let the strands of his hair slip through his fingers and he swivelled to gaze dejectedly out of the window. He couldn’t see much, the tube being enclosed in tunnel walls, but he could see his own reflection gazing morosely back at him. He avoided his own eye contact; instead letting his mind wonder if his father’s hair was the same colour as his. He supposed it was; they had always had the same shade of hair. He wondered if it felt as soft as his did, and if he could conjure a reason to touch it when Thranduil returned.

Legolas shook his head, willing the thoughts away. His mind had thoroughly betrayed him, always swirling back to thoughts of his beautiful father. He couldn’t make it stop, though he tried valiantly. He caught himself thinking of Thranduil’s mouth - so perfectly shaped with such full lips. He pushed those thoughts away. He then thought of his father’s ears, so delicate and pointy, just like his own, and the way they joined to sweep down into his jawbone. Oh; that strong jaw and rounded chin. And his nose - oh god his nose was perfect. He had never realised how utterly gorgeous Thranduil was until he had sat watching him sleep. He’d always known that his father was handsome; grateful that some of those genetics had rubbed off on him, yet that was not a sufficient word to describe Thranduil.

He was beautiful. There was no other word of him.

Legolas shivered and tried his best to think of something else. He thought of where he was headed; across the river to his favourite establishment for buying art supplies. He had always purchased his paint at this particular crummy little store; the owner having been a friend of his mother’s. Perhaps seeing an old haunt would snap him out of his loneliness; perhaps it would snap him back into reality - a blissful alternate reality where his father was not his soulmate.

Legolas grappled with his feelings of isolation as though he didn’t know what had caused them, though in the back of his mind he knew. Deep down, under all his questioning and confusion, he knew. He had felt the loss of Thranduil even before he had woken that day. His dreams had become dark and frozen over with pain, and he had jolted awake when the front door had banged shut. The hollowness of being apart from his father had settled down around him almost immediately, dulling every one of his senses; including his colours.

Legolas was jolted from his musings by the announcement of his station. He hurried out of the tube and through the oppressive, winding passageways of the station, grateful when he surfaced into the chilly London air.

**§§§**

Thranduil was trying to keep his eyes from being distracted by the wisps of pale yellow hair that floated about his face. He shoved a hand through his hair, swiping the fly-aways back against his scalp. He had hurriedly tied his hair back into a low bun that morning, horrified at how it had looked in his bathroom mirror. Apparently his hair was a soft shade of yellow.

He blew on a strand as it tried to stick to his bottom lip. He hated it. It was garish and weird and he couldn’t believe he’d lived with hair that was such a hideous colour for his entire life. He had tried to ignore his hair for his entire train journey, doodling random shapes on the back page of the newspaper he’d given up reading. Doodling always calmed him, yet, on this particular train journey, he was unable to concentrate on it. He was also, rather miserably, trying to avoid looking at the spindles of colour that rose from the base of the train. The click-clacking sound of the car as it moved along the tracks swirled around him, appearing as a shimmering shade of orange. The last time Thranduil had experienced such a thing was when the doctor at the hospital had spoken to him and red tendrils of sound had come spewing from his mouth.

As the train clattered through the English countryside and his journey lengthened, Thranduil could not help but be utterly entranced by the colours that assaulted him. He had never given much thought to nature, but the oranges and reds of the flowers he saw were incredible. Patches of the brightly coloured things were growing everywhere, yet he seemed to be the only person on the train able to appreciate them. He tried not to stare too blatantly out of the window, the bitter taste of being assumed ‘insane’ by a doctor still lingering.

Thranduil could not restrain his staring as he neared his destination though, and he was grateful that nearly all of the passengers had disembarked as they reached the end of the line. The train to his destination travelled along the English coastline, hugging the jagged cliffs as it hurtled towards his mysterious rendezvous. The view was breath-taking, but not because of the natural splendour.

Nestled in a quiet, isolated cove was a small town of pure colour. Most of the houses were painted in bright, garish shades of paint. Thranduil bumped his forehead on the glass of his window as he strained to get a better view. His mouth dropped open as the train rounded a bend, flying towards the splash of colour that covered the hillside. Though Thranduil could only make out reds, oranges and yellows, he was sure that the greys of some buildings were also shaded in brilliant hues of colour he could not yet see.

For the first time since he had realised what was happening to him, Thranduil felt wonder; pure, brilliant, prancing wonderment. He could not hide the smile that flashed across his lips; the sight was so unlike anything he had ever seen before that he was unable to stop his natural, joyful response to the colours.

Thranduil’s bright smile faltered, and then faded completely, when the need to share his discovery with his soulmate welled up inside of him. He felt compelled, drawn to see how Legolas would react to such a place. His arms ached with emptiness and he knew he should be enveloping his soulmate in them, holding him tight and bonding over the glorious sight.

Yet he could not, would not, allow himself to think of holding Legolas in such a way.

Thranduil withdrew into himself once more, drawing the lapels of his soft coat about his neck. He pulled his eyes away from the sight of the town he was headed to and tried to focus on his mission. The man he was about to meet had not given away much over the telephone. He had only provided the name of the station that Thranduil would meet him at, Port Rivendell, and the time; 9:00am. He would not give his name and had only said that he would be wearing a red scarf to identify himself. It was all very cloak-and-dagger, and Thranduil had debated leaving the train and heading home many times on his journey. But he was desperate, and in his desperation he would do just about anything.

A flash of bright yellow caught Thranduil’s eye and he looked out of the window once more. ‘Port Rivendell’ was emblazoned in black on a cheerfully yellow sign, heralding their arrival at the station. Thranduil pursed his lips and tried to quell his nervousness. He folded his newspaper and tucked in into his coat pocket before standing and moving to the door, the slowing train causing him to wobble off balance a little. Thranduil stalwartly ignored the swirling of colour tinged sound as it transitioned from orange to deep red with the slowing of the train. Yes. He was desperate. And desperate people did stupid things.

As the train ground to a halt, Thranduil glimpsed a glimmer of red through the door of the car. A man, dressed in a comfortable sable coat and sturdy brown boots, stood before him, smiling softly. His eyes were creased at the folds, as if he had spent many hours laughing, and his gentle expression seemed at odds with the explosion of colour around him. Thranduil took a deep, steadying breath and held the man’s gaze as the car doors opened out onto the platform. Thranduil stepped out carefully, sliding his hands deep into his pockets as he did.

The man wearing the red scarf smiled wider, his gaze appraising Thranduil from head to toe. “Thranduil?” he asked, tilting his head to the right and looking directly into Thranduil’s eyes.

Thranduil nodded, still prepared to make a mad dash back into the train before it left the station. The man’s eyes unsettled him; it was as if they could see past his barriers to all of the fears and anxieties that bubbled underneath his steely surface.

“Elrond,” the man said, extracting his hand from his own coat pocket and extending it to Thranduil. Thranduil tried not to be distracted by the gush of yellow that seemed to spill in waves out of Elrond’s mouth as he spoke. He took the man’s hand tentatively, the warmth of Elrond’s fingers melting some of the anxiety that constricted Thranduil’s heart. “Here,” Elrond said, unfurling the scarf from his neck and tossing it over Thranduil’s shoulders, “You’ll look odd in town if you’re wearing all grey. Come on.”

Thranduil blinked in shock, looking down to where the red material floated across his chest. He’d never worn colour before.

“Come on,” Elrond said again, already turning to make his way off of the platform. Thranduil threw one last glance back to the train, to safety, before he clutched the scarf and hurried after Elrond.

**§§§**

  
“Leggy!”

Legolas grinned as he pushed open the door to the decrepit store. He ignored the ‘closed’ sign that hung on the door; Haldir’s shop was always open.

“How are you Haldir?” Legolas said as he was enveloped by the waft of cheap cologne, the sickly sweet smell of weed, and the arms of his friend.

“Not as good as you are! Gods, Legolas, you look cleaner than I’ve ever seen you,” Haldir laughed, drawing back to look at his young friend. Haldir was wearing his characteristic faded, baggy jeans and a black t-shirt with a marijuana leaf spread across his chest. Legolas shrugged and looked down to himself. He supposed that he did look rather different. His father had insisted on buying him some new clothes when he had seen the state of his wardrobe, and Thranduil knew nothing other than quality. “It seems like money agrees with you.” Haldir quirked his eyebrow.

Legolas rolled his eyes and punched his friend lightly on the arm, “Don’t be silly, Haldy, I’m just there until…” He’d already stayed past his birthday, “…until I figure out my next move.” But of course, Legolas never wanted to leave; he never wanted to be parted from Thranduil.

Haldir scrunched his face up and laughed, miming a posh, mincing walk back to the counter of the small store he owned. It was filled with the most random stock Legolas had ever seen, but it did not surprise him. Haldir specialised in items that ‘fell off the back of trucks’. Legolas made a show of rolling his eyes once more, but a small smiled tugged at his lips.

“So, you need your usual?” Haldir asked, pulling a joint out of his pocket and lighting up. Legolas watched, fascinated for a few seconds by the way the end of the joint glowed red and orange, before he shook his head.

“Actually, Haldy, I was wondering if you had something a bit… different.”

Haldir looked confused for a moment. He then became very serious and nodded, leaning forward conspiratorially before saying, “You know I don’t sell dildos. But I can make a very good recommendation.”

Legolas felt heat rise up into his cheeks and he knew he had turned bright red. It was still odd to him that he turned red when embarrassed, but he assumed that it was normal. Not that Haldir could see it, anyway. Haldir held his steady, serious expression for a moment before he burst into peals of laughter.

“Haldir,” Legolas said over the laughing, “I don’t need any dildos!”

Haldir, still chuckling at himself, held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, whatever you say. But I do know that Orophin can get them very cheap, and in bulk, if you change your mind.”

For what possible reason would Legolas need dildos in bulk?

Legolas fought the urge to stick his tongue out at Haldir to hide what he was feeling. Legolas was by no means innocent, but lately any thoughts that he had had of a questionable nature had been about his father. He did not want to be thinking about the slope of Thranduil’s jaw, the curve of his spine or tightness of his ass in public. He wasn’t very adept at controlling his body’s response to such thoughts. Especially when he thought of the way Thranduil looked at him while he painted his portrait, or the way his father felt in his arms when he hugged him…

Legolas shifted on his feet and cleared his throat, shaking the pervasive thoughts from his mind. “I’m sure I won’t change my mind,” Legolas said, “I was actually thinking of a different sort of spray paint.”

Haldir wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at Legolas before thinking about his question.

“Different?”

“Yes,” Legolas said tentatively, wondering how he could possibly explain to Haldir what he was looking for without sounding completely mad. “Not… the usual stuff. I’m looking for spray paint… in… colours?”

Haldir said nothing for what seemed like hours. A myriad of emotions passed over his face, all reflected in his sparkling eyes as they darted back and forth over Legolas’ face, trying to discern whether Legolas was messing with him or not.

“Colours?” Haldir said slowly, “Have you finally lost it, Leggy?”

Legolas’ brow furrowed and he gave a half shrug, not knowing whether he should push his luck and try and explain more. Perhaps Haldir would think he was insane.

“No, you’re right, I’m just… joking,” Legolas tried to act as if he wasn’t disappointed, “My usual then, as usual.”

Haldir narrowed his eyes at Legolas, noting his strange behaviour. All of a sudden, he became serious, realising that Legolas was sincere. He threw a look over Legolas’ shoulder, to make sure that no one was watching through his windows, and motioned with his head to the back room while saying, “I may have something.”

**§§§**

“So, you’re an artist?” Elrond said, blowing on the mug of tea clasped between his hands.

Thranduil’s brain was terribly overloaded. A cup of scalding hot tea rested between his hands but he did not feel the heat. His mind was trying to play catch up; he was trying to process what he was seeing. He barely heard Elrond’s question.

From the train station he had followed Elrond down from the cliffs to the tiny village. While the scarf was distracting and fascinating all at once, the town had been an overload. The ochres and reds that the houses were painted in jumped out at Thranduil, demanding his full attention. The dusty oranges and the muted yellows of the rooves and window sills flecked Thranduil’s already straining vision, pulling yet more attention. He tried to look everywhere at once, but found that he felt a little dizzy when they reached Elrond’s house. It was large and painted from gables to gutters in glowing red. Thranduil vaguely noticed that the sign outside the house read Dr. Elrond Peredhel.

Thranduil’s temples had begun to pound with the stimulation, and he had to shut his eyes when he entered the house. All the colours he could see assaulted him. Everything was bright. It was as though grey, white and black were frowned upon in the community, and everything had to express the joy of colour. A rising feeling of dread and weariness clawed up Thranduil’s throat, making his heart pound in his chest. All he could think was that he needed… he needed Legolas to hold on to.

Elrond had taken pity on Thranduil, sitting him down on a fluorescent pink couch and handing him a cup of tea to steady himself. But Thranduil’s mind still whirred, mostly with thoughts of Legolas.

“It’s hard at first,” Elrond had said, “To acclimatise to the change in environment, but you’ll get used to it.”

Thranduil had only nodded and exchanged some small talk with the man, telling him of his occupation and how he had come by Elrond’s number. Elrond had listened intently, a gentle, understanding expression still gracing his face.

“Thranduil, it’s okay. No one here is going to commit you to an insane asylum. Now, it’s usually best if I ask you some questions first, is that alright?”

Thranduil nodded; still nervous but gradually becoming accustomed to the house.

“Alright, good,” Elrond smiled, “What is the most recent colour that has become visible to you?”

Thranduil took a deep breath, “Yellow, I think it’s called. I woke up this morning and realised my hair was yellow.”

Elrond’s lips twitched into a small smile, “Your hair is a very light blonde, yes. More golden than yellow, I think, but you’ll see for yourself once your yellows deepen and your greens come in.”

Thranduil stared at Elrond as if he had just spurted a foreign language and the man chuckled at Thranduil’s expression.

“Greens?” Thranduil said, his brows furrowing.

“Your next colour will be green. Oh, you’ll like it, especially if you live close to a park or have a garden.” Elrond smiled warmly, his eyes glistening in happiness. “But yes, yellow. It usually takes about a week for yellow to kick in. How have you been otherwise? Your initial nausea should have dissipated within the first day or two.”

Thranduil nodded dumbly. He was shocked that this man knew so much about what he was going through, yet also glad that help was at hand.

“Good, good,” Elrond said, “is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

A million frantic questions blazed through Thranduil’s mind and he blinked at Elrond. The man smiled at Thranduil’s stricken expression before saying, “Alright, I know. That was probably a silly question.”

Thranduil shrugged and looked down at his tea once again.

“Okay, let’s start at the beginning, do you know much about the lore surrounding soulmates?”

“Only what I’ve read on the internet,” Thranduil admitted.

Elrond rolled his eyes dramatically. “Forget all of it. It’s all ridiculous. Before I found my soulmate, very little was known about the subject. I myself dismissed the theory of such things as fairy-tale, that is, until I saw my first sparkling of red. I fully devoted all my research to the study of how the human brain activates to see colour. As you may expect, Cambridge did not take too kindly to that.”

Thranduil felt stupid. It was not something he felt often, but he could not speak, he only nodded, desperate and grateful and relieved to have found someone who seemed to know what he was talking about.

“I founded this small community almost twenty five years ago, after I was… relieved… of my position at the University, and I set up a small research facility right here in Port Rivendell. It’s where I’ve done all of my experimentation to figure out how this happens to us. Though many in the scientific community view me and my research as a farce, I’m sure you know that it is worth it to be able to experience such wonder.”

Thranduil did not interrupt Elrond; how could he tell him that the colours had not been wondrous for him? That he had been sick with guilt and anguish for days?

“Do you know much about the human brain, Thranduil?” Elrond asked, and Thranduil shook his head. Of course he didn’t.

“Here,” Elrond said, standing to pull a heavy book off of one of his many bookshelves. He laid the worn copy on Thranduil’s knees and flipped through a few pages until he opened on a large anatomical drawing of the brain and the human skull. Elrond’s eyes lit up like a small child’s on Christmas as he perched on the edge of the couch next to Thranduil. “Alright, so, in your retina,” Elrond pointed to a blob of anatomy in the eye region, “You have rods and cones. Mainstream science has no explanation for the presence of cones. In most humans they are dormant and do not contribute to the process of vision. Most scientists dismiss them as vestigial, sort of like your appendix. But, in people who have bonded with their soulmates, I have found that these cones are actually physically mutated, and are responsible for the perception of colour.”

Thranduil nodded deliberately, before looking up at Elrond with a small frown. “But how has this happened to me?”

Elrond beamed at Thranduil. He literally glowed with excitement. “Ah, so… you see…” Elrond wiggled a bit further on to the couch, getting more comfortable. “The cones, which are actually divided up into three distinct types, are able to process the wavelengths of colour and send the appropriate raw signal back through the optic nerve…” Elrond traced the weird-looking bundle of nerves through the skull, “…back through the lateral geniculate nucleus in the thalamus, and onwards to the place in the brain that can process colour. This area of the brain, the primary visual cortex, does not show nearly as much activity in un-bonded humans as it does in bonded ones.”

“Okay,” Thranduil said cautiously. He had always enjoyed biology at school but this was a bit above his head. He hoped that he understood correctly. “But how do the cones mutate? What makes them suddenly decide to be able to process colours?”

Elrond was nearly bouncing in his seat now. “This is what I have only recently discovered! It seems as though physical contact between humans who are soulmates elicits a physiological response. This response causes the thyroid to secrete a hormone that promotes the growth and activation of the cones and the colour-processing part of the brain.” Elrond looked as though he was about to burst with pride. “I suspect that it is a heretofore undiscovered pheromone that the soulmate emits that causes this reaction.”

Thranduil gazed down at the book in his lap for a few moments. He had to admit, Elrond’s confidence in his theory and the hard science behind it was comforting. And yet, a fairly obvious question was tugging at the sides of Thranduil’s mind – why? Before he could ask this question, Elrond had continued.

“The reason you felt so awful when you first bonded with your soulmate is because your brain was undergoing an actual, physical change. Your brain chemistry was basically going berserk with new hormones. It’s that characteristic ‘pounding behind the eyes’ type of headache that’s the most common. The nausea varies, but that’s usually due to the severe pain of the headache.”

Thranduil tried to tell if he felt any different. He certainly didn’t feel as though his brain had physically changed.

“I can prescribe you some painkillers for the next round of headaches. They should happen fairly soon; green is the next type of cones activating,” Elrond said, patting his pocket and looking around for his prescription pad.

“Wait,” Thranduil said, turning towards Elrond, “What?”

“They’re not as bad as the first round, but are still pretty nasty. You see; there are three different types of cones in your eyes. The first type is able to pick up reds, oranges and yellows. The second type can process greens and some dark blues, and the third type is for higher wavelength perception; namely your light blues and violet. They activate with the length of time you are exposed to your soulmate’s pheromones. The colours will also become more solid and less ‘shimmery’ as your brain learns to cope with processing them.”

Thranduil just stared at the man, his mouth hanging slightly open. He had to experience more pain? What was this horrific ordeal that he had to endure? What could he have possibly done to deserve such a punishment?

“Perhaps I could also write a script for your soulmate? It’s odd that you came by yourself. I usually help both those who have bonded. Was your soulmate unwilling to come?” Elrond studied the tortured blonde in front of him intensely.

Thranduil’s lips curled upwards momentarily as he thought of Legolas; thought of how he was probably still curled up in bed, spooning Gandalf.

“Uh,” Thranduil began, looking down to the half-empty mug in his hands, “He… uh, they don’t know. They don’t know that I am their soulmate.”

Elrond sat back on the couch for a moment, a deep frown furrowed into his forehead. He was silent for a few long seconds, his eyes boring into Thranduil. “They don’t know? They can’t see the colours?”

Thranduil shook his head, “They can. It’s just… he doesn’t know it’s me. I haven’t told him that it’s me.”

Elrond paused for a long moment before saying, “May I ask why?”

Thranduil could think of no other answer than, “Because I don’t want him to know.”

“Thranduil-” Elrond began.

“Look, why? Why is this happening to me? I understand what you have said about the science well enough, but you still haven’t explained why? Why is it necessary for anyone to bond with another person so deeply that their entire world is altered by it? And why can I all of a sudden see sound?” Thranduil was babbling, his eyes darting to look at the waves of colour that dissipated from Elrond’s mouth. He’d done a sterling job of ignoring them up until now. A desperate tone had crept into Thranduil’s voice and Elrond was quite unprepared for the pleading of the blonde man’s eyes. He had never come across someone who was so tortured by the colours, or who could apparently see sound as colour. His heart leapt into his throat and his scientific mind whirred with possibilities.

When Elrond didn’t respond, Thranduil shut his eyes and furrowed his brow, trying to quell the tears that had risen up. “I was perfectly happy before, or at least I thought I was, and now I just can’t face another day like this.”

Elrond’s eyes widened and he reached out, placing a tentative hand on Thranduil’s trembling shoulder. “I don’t know why. I don’t know for what reason or design we are allowed to form such bonds, and neither do I know how one soul recognises its match in another. And I definitely don’t know why you are seeing sound, that’s a new one. But it is nothing to be ashamed of, Thranduil. Perhaps you should tell him, your soulmate, perhaps it is not as bad as you fear?”

They were all rational words. Thranduil knew they were. But he had an irrational problem to deal with. He was the sick soul that had bonded with his own son. Surely such a thing was never intended?

Thranduil shook his head sadly, “You have to tell me how to reverse this, Elrond. Please, I’m begging you. I can’t even talk to another person without seeing colour flowing from their mouths. You have to help me.”

Elrond gaped at him. To want to reverse something as beautiful and unique as a soul bond was inconceivable to the doctor. Never mind the fact that it was quite impossible.

“Thranduil-”

“Please!” Thranduil raised his voice, putting down his empty mug and winding his hands into Elrond’s jacket; his grip like a vice, “Please, you need to give me something to stop this. The changes in my brain need to be reversed!”

“Thranduil, if this is the reason you came here, I will be sorry to disappoint you. Soul bonds are irreversible; the changes in the structure of your physiology are permanent. Your colours will begin to fade if you are not exposed to the pheromones of your soulmate, but that will not reverse the change that has occurred. You will forever be bonded to one another, inexplicably and irreversibly, even when one of you dies. Though the colours may disappear, the bond will remain.”

Thranduil stared at Elrond for a moment, his eyes searching desperately for signs of dishonesty on Elrond’s face. He found none, and his face crumpled. He let go of the material of Elrond’s jacket and hung his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Elrond found himself watching a man’s entire world crumble around him. It was if he had told him the most horrific piece of news imaginable, and it had destroyed his universe. Though the situation was foreign to him, though he did not know how he would ever help the poor artist who was so tortured by his soulmate, Elrond knew of one thing that always made himself feel better.

He leaned forwards, resting a hand on Thranduil’s shoulder once more as he said gently, “How about another cup of tea?”

Thranduil’s face crumpled in sadness, but he nodded.

“Good, we’ll have a nice hot cup of tea, and you can explain to me about the sounds? Alright?”

**§§§**

It was dark when Legolas eventually returned home. He had expected to find his father sitting on the couch or eating dinner at his easel, but instead he only found a distressed Gandalf. The fat cat made squeaky, tortured sounds as Legolas moved to feed him. Gandalf hated being left alone for long periods, having grown up with Thranduil’s almost constant presence.

When the cat was eating happily, Legolas checked the rooms of the flat. No, his father was not yet back. Legolas frowned and headed into the lounge area, his fingers worrying the flecks of dried paint on his fingers. He’d tried to wash up as best he could, but there were still small smudges of yellow on his hands. He bit his lip and sat down on one of the sprawling couches. He had been desperate for Thranduil to be home.

He had spent all day playing with the yellow spray paint that he had bought from Haldir. Though his friend could not see colours, he had, a few years back, acquired a package that purported to contain coloured spray paint. He could not establish if this was true or not, but Legolas had assured him it was. The paint was bright yellow, and he had purchased every bottle Haldir had. It had been a good day, and he had tagged all of his usual haunts, bringing back some long forgotten memories.

But Legolas had not expected what would happen to him that day. As the hours wore on, he began to notice that the yellow faded. All his colours faded. By the time he had hurried back to the tube, he could just barely make out the colour of his hair. Once he’d reached the flat he was not able to tell that the bright yellow paint that clung to his fingers had ever been a colour. He had prayed that Thranduil was home. He had prayed that he was his soulmate. He couldn’t live without the colour; he needed it, and his father, back. He craved his proximity and the suspicion that his father was his soulmate was all but confirmed in his mind.

So it was an exhausted, confused and distressed Legolas that fell asleep as he waited for his father. He didn’t want to miss him when he returned; he needed to see him, even if he could not touch him in the way he wanted. He needed to at least see his eyes before he went to bed, yet the pull of sleep claimed the young blonde minutes before his father arrived home.

Thranduil entered his flat, weary from his long journey, with a small backpack tossed over his shoulder and Elrond’s red scarf tucked firmly into his coat. Though Thranduil could barely make out the colour of the scarf anymore, it felt good to have it near him. He let the backpack fall from his shoulder, the various pieces of literature and objects Elrond had gifted to him clinking together dully as he placed it on the hallway floor. He could only think of a hot, tension-relieving shower as he stumbled through the flat, unwrapping himself from the scarf and his coat.

The sight of Legolas sprawled out on one of the couches in the lounge stopped him in his tracks. He was immediately awake again, a shower now the furthest thing from his mind. His first instinct was to hide the red scarf, but he stopped himself when he realised that Legolas was asleep.

Had he been waiting up for him? Thranduil’s vision throbbed and rippled as his proximity to his soulmate registered.

Thranduil could not help himself in that moment.

It had been a long, desperate, depressing day. He was bone tired; his limbs weary from the journey and his heart exhausted from the emotional turmoil he’d had to finally confront. And now all he wanted was his soulmate. He wanted to melt into Legolas’ arms, to curl into him and to forget about everything.

His feet were moving before his mind had given them permission to and he found himself kneeling in front of Legolas’ prone form in seconds. He hesitated, but only for a moment, and then he had Legolas’ soft cheek in his palm.

It was an instant relief. Thranduil felt the tension drain from his shoulders and leach out of his body. The skin-on-skin contact after being parted for so long was gloriously intimate. Thranduil felt whole; he didn’t know that there had been parts of him missing until Legolas had filled them up. The return of his colours seemed to be instant also, their bond roaring back to life though his touch.

Thranduil smiled softly down at his son when the pale gold of Legolas’ hair became apparent. It was the same as his, and Thranduil found himself warming up to the concept of yellow hair. If it looked so good on Legolas, perhaps it wasn’t so bad on him?

Thranduil started when Legolas shifted under his touch, though he did not pull away. Instead, his son nuzzled further against his hand, sighing deeply. Thranduil closed his eyes and rubbed the pad of his thumb over Legolas’ smooth skin.

“Ada,” Legolas mumbled, snuffling and trying to move closer to his father in his sleep. Thranduil’s sad eyes opened once more, and he gazed down sorrowfully upon his young son. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that the only option left to him to save them both would be for them to be parted. Though Elrond had urged him not to deny what was happening, not to push his soulmate away, he felt that he had no other choice. But how could he push Legolas away? How could he look into those beautiful eyes and tell him that he had to leave?

Pushing all the day’s worries from his mind, Thranduil let out a long, slow breath and leaned forwards, his lips hovering above Legolas’ forehead. He kissed him tenderly, a mere press of lips to skin, but the contact sent scalding flames through where they were joined. Thranduil gasped and pulled back, his eyes glassy with tears.

The weight of the day finally caught up with him and he told himself that he would just close his eyes for five minutes before heading to his own room. Thranduil slipped his hand from Legolas’ cheek, instead resting it on top of his son’s own. He then lay his head down on the couch, nestling his nose into Legolas’ arm, and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**
> 
> I hope you enjoyed that! 
> 
> So, I've been tossing around a few ideas about what I should do for some Christmas-inspired Thrandolas. I've come up with doing a '12 Days of Thrandolas' sort of thing. I'll post one fic every day, for 12 days, starting on the 14th of December and ending on the 25th O.o they'll all take place in the 'Things That Go Bump in the Night' universe and will all have a Christmasy theme. 
> 
> I just want to know if any of the readers out there would be interested in such a thing?
> 
> More of my art can be found at [plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)


	7. Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and Legolas are tempted - so very tempted - by one another, and Legolas discovers the extent to which his bond with his father will torture his emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***dances***
> 
> Hellooooo! Here is the next chapter, I hope you like it! ;) Let me know what you think! I really enjoyed drawing Kili for the art on this one! 
> 
> Enjoy x

* * *

Green / ɡriːn/ _adjective_ :  a form of electromagnetic radiation with a predominant wavelength of roughly 495–570 nm. The colour between yellow and blueon the spectrum of light.

Legolas was having an exceptionally vivid dream. Why his dream felt so real, why it seemed as though he could touch and taste and see everything in high definition, he did not know. But he couldn’t bring himself to wonder about it too deeply; he was too distracted by the sight before him. His brain had rendered, in perfect detail and glorious definition, his beautiful father.

Thranduil was bathed in a light that Legolas did not recognise, but he knew that he would very soon. The scene outside of the large studio windows was of no consequence to Legolas, though it churned and shimmered in the colour that he could not yet recognise. Thranduil was effortlessly ethereal, sat behind his easel with his back straight and a paintbrush clasped between his teeth. It was only after he watched Thranduil paint for a few moments that Legolas realised that his father was painting him. And then he saw himself, sprawled across a red upholstered chaise longue, and naked as the day he was born. There was a smudge of fabric that covered his modesty, but it did not leave much to the imagination – and Thranduil looked as though he was trying his best to imagine exactly what was under it.

His father worked feverishly, splatters of colours creeping up his hands and arms as he strove to capture the form of Legolas before him. It was a strange dream - with Legolas both watching the scene unfold and experiencing it first hand, his point of view switching and melding from one to the other. He barely noticed that Gandalf was sat against the leg of the chaise longue, wearing a top hat and monocle, mewing softly while he ate a packet of Doritos with a dexterity belying the fact he was a cat.

And then Thranduil was standing before him, leaning down to brush a piece of his yellow hair away from his face. And then their lips were so close – _so very close_ – and Thranduil was whispering against his son’s mouth that he loved him. He loved him in a way that he should never love his son. And then Thranduil took Legolas’ face in his hands, bringing their mouths together in a tender kiss. Everything grew incredibly bright around them then, the light reaching a level that burned Legolas’ eyes closed.

And then Thranduil’s hand was under that flimsy wisp of material that covered Legolas, and he was lost – _so lost_.

And then he was awake.

And something soft was moving against his arm. _Gandalf_ – if he wasn’t so fond of him he would kill the cat for waking him. Legolas scrunched his forehead and yawned, sliding his arm up and over Gandalf’s smooth fur. He gave the cat a few gentle strokes, enjoying how silky and soft he felt.

But then Gandalf very made a very un-Gandalf-like noise; a deep, misshapen hum of pleasure that resonated within Legolas’ soul. He paused for a moment, his fingers sliding through the hair he was caressing, before his eyes flew open.

_It was absolutely not Gandalf._

His breath hitched and his heart began pounding with force in his chest. It was a wonder he was not pulled off of the couch by its erratic thumping. There, mere centimetres from his face, was his father. He was resting the side of his face on the seat of the couch while sitting propped up against it on the floor. Legolas had never been so close to Thranduil, and it was utterly breath-taking to be able to see every eyelash that twitched as he slept. Legolas’ startled eyes widened and he gulped down a nervous swallow. Thranduil’s heavy brows were knit in a small frown and he snuggled further into the hand that Legolas had tangled in his hair.

After a few moments of shock, Legolas was finally able to move. Instead of pulling back, he leaned even further forwards, now able to feel the puffs of breath that flowed noiselessly from his father’s nose. He tightened the hand that he had twisted in Thranduil’s hair reverently, the tips of his fingers brushing sensually over his father’s scalp. Legolas began to tremble when Thranduil emitted another low moan of pleasure.

He should not be touching his father as he was, if Thranduil woke and found him… He did not know what his father would do. But he should not be risking their relationship. He knew he shouldn’t, but he was unable to stop – the draw of his soulmate overpowering every instinct he possessed. He could not stop himself from bringing their noses together, the very tips just brushing against one another. Oh gods, it was absolute heaven to be so close to his lovely father.

And then the last vestiges of Thranduil’s cologne reached out to Legolas’ sense of smell, and he melted. His stomach dropped and twisted and contracted painfully, his mouth dropping open as he was assaulted by memory and desperate need. The hints of oil paint and turpentine were absent, but the fresh spark of grapefruit and the spicy note of saffron made him embarrassingly aroused. The wooden undertone that lingered tortured his senses, and Legolas was immediately achingly hard for his father. He wanted him. He wanted him to wake up, press him into the couch and grind against his cock until he found blissful release.

Surely one, tiny kiss would do no harm? He father would not wake if he kissed the tip of his nose? Or maybe lower? Maybe he could steal one rushed kiss from those… oh gods those pink lips were perfect. Just one kiss; he needed it. This could be his only chance to ever taste his father.

Legolas clenched his jaw and scooted forward gently, ever aware that his father could awaken. But then their breaths were mixing and Legolas’ dream blared to life in his head. He was lost once more, so very lost in the emotions and the colours and the… wrongness of it all. The beautiful, depraved longing that he harboured for Thranduil burst forth, clouding his mind and making him so very bold.

And he was so close. And Thranduil was so warm and beautiful and… oh gods was his hair the same colour as his own? Legolas gripped the golden strands a bit tighter between his fingers and his cock began to pound with need. Yes, he was so close, their lips now just a hair’s breadth away… so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from Thranduil’s body; could see the way his eyes roved back and forth under his eyelids. He wondered if his father was dreaming about him?

Legolas nearly jumped a foot in the air when Gandalf appeared out of nowhere, like a phantom in the night, and hopped up onto the couch next to him. He was meowing loudly in his usual ‘good morning’ soliloquy.

Legolas’ blood ran frigid in his veins when Thranduil’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes blinked open. He flung himself back onto the couch as his father’s vision cleared and his eyes seemed to come into focus. Legolas’ chest heaved, rising and falling in time with his gasping breaths. He tried to calm himself, he tried to act as though he had just woken up himself, but he knew that he looked guilty.

And then Legolas remembered the pounding erection that still tented his jeans. He crossed his legs hurriedly, his eyes locking with the now fully awake ones of Thranduil. They widened and then clouded over with confusion.

“Legolas?” Thranduil said, sitting up and blinking at where he found himself waking up. His hand immediately flew up to his neck, pain lancing through where he had slept awkwardly. He cringed, distracted from the fact that he had woken up with Legolas so close to him.

“Adar, I… We must have… fallen asleep,” Legolas could think of nothing else but to state the obvious. He hoped to any god that was listening that his father would not realise what he had tried to do.

Thranduil grimaced and rubbed at his neck, his eyes finding Legolas’. He did not recognise most of the emotions that swam in his son’s eyes, but fear he could distinguish. Fear? What was Legolas afraid of?

“It… It’s still quite early,” Legolas mumbled, breaking eye contact and looking out of the window. The first reds, oranges and yellows of the sunrise assaulted Legolas’ eyes, momentarily distracting him from his situation. They seemed brighter now, more vivid and solid. It was as if they had stabilised in his vision – perhaps due to Thranduil’s closeness? Legolas tore his eyes away with great difficultly, forcing a small smile onto his lips. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

Legolas stood up hurriedly, angling his body so that the arousal that strained against his pants was not obvious. Thranduil would not have seen it, even if Legolas had not been so careful, as his eyes were caught by the smudges of yellow paint that still clung to Legolas’ fingers and hands; evidence of the graffiti he’d executed on the previous day. Thranduil opened his mouth to protest, to demand an explanation, but he bit his tongue. How could he explain knowing about the colour?

So he let Legolas dart from the room, his bedroom door slamming shut as he retreated. Thranduil exhaled and ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, still held back by the low bun he wore.

He turned to look at the cat that had awoken him, prepared to give him his best annoyed glare. Instead, Thranduil twitched in fright. Gandalf sat on the couch, looking straight at him with big, glowing yellow eyes. They were the strangest shade of colour that Thranduil had yet seen. He shook his head at the strange cat, who made a low hissing sound and trailed after his best friend, his fat stomach lolloping from side to side as he hastened away from Thranduil.

**§§§**

  
Legolas had done very little sleeping when he emerged from his bedroom a couple of hours later. He had spent most of the time huddled on his bed, Gandalf in his arms, trying to come to terms with what he had almost done. Yes it had felt good, yes he had wanted to do it - but he shouldn’t want it. He shouldn’t want to do such things to his father, soulmate or no. But why had Thranduil fallen asleep next to him like that? Had his father returned home and ached to be close to his son? Was he feeling what Legolas was? Was he experiencing the same pining loneliness and aching arms that his son was enduring? At that moment, lying huddled on his bed with tears in his eyes and enveloped in burning want, all Legolas craved was the arms of his father around him.

Aching, longing need to be near his soulmate was pulling at him by the time he decided to venture out of his bedroom. It was so strong a need that he gave up fighting it. He had to be around Thranduil, he had to be able to see him to quell his tumultuous emotions - and he had to search for something to alleviate the pounding headache that had set up a rhythm on the inside of his skull. Gandalf was a bit put out at having to be moved from his snuggly position between Legolas’ arms, though he stretched his fat body and followed his best friend anyway.

The scent of bacon and eggs frying assailed Legolas when he stepped from his room and the lilting tones of classical music flooded the air around him. Thranduil had not returned to sleep in his own bed. His mind was working overtime at having woken up with Legolas mere inches from himself. Too much adrenaline had been coursing through his veins for him to relax back into sleep. He had picked himself up off of the floor of the living room, hidden the scarf and the backpack he had dropped the previous evening, and taken a long, hot shower to ease the tension in his neck.

Thranduil had changed, dried his hair and now stood over the stove, frying breakfast for himself and Legolas while he listened to the radio. He hadn’t dared to listen to music since he discovered that he could see sounds as wisps of colour. He and Elrond had talked at length about his seemingly unique ability, and he had been comforted by the scientist’s hypotheses as to how and why the phenomenon may occur. Though, it still unsettled him to see bright yellow, tinged with what he only assumed was the beginning of green, spewing from the speakers on the radio, he felt more at ease with it. He wasn’t going mad, he wasn’t sick, and he had found a community of people who understood what was happening to him. It lifted a large, debilitating weight off of Thranduil’s broad shoulders, but it did nothing to ease the pain of knowing who he had bonded with.

He had an alternate motive for making the breakfast. He had felt the tell-tale pounding of a colour-headache press into his head while he had showered and had immediately popped two of the painkillers that Elrond had prescribed. Though he still felt the characteristic pressure of it behind his eyes, the headache was much lessened, and he felt in control of his body for the first time in days. All-in-all, Thranduil felt rather good that morning. A small, soft voice in the back of his mind whispered that it was because he had spent all night curled into Legolas’ warmth while he slept on the couch. But the larger portion of Thranduil’s brain dismissed this, certain that it was just because the weight of not knowing what was happening to him was lifted from his shoulders.

But what of Legolas’ headache? He couldn’t bear to think of his son in such excruciating agony because of a chemical reaction that he had induced in him. The most rational thing to do, in Thranduil’s mind, was to dose Legolas’ tea with the medicine that would help him. It conveniently side-stepped the unpleasant task of Thranduil’s explaining where he had gotten the pills, and why Legolas needed them. He couldn’t let his son go through pain, he had to take care of him - he had to make sure he was okay. When they were over the worst of their headaches and the bond was complete, then he would make plans for Legolas to move out.

Perhaps he could buy him a small flat in town? Maybe he could see him every so often? But they definitely could not be in proximity for long periods of time; waking up next to him had confirmed that. He had been tempted. So very tempted by Legolas’ gentle eyes and confused brow and beautiful jaw-

“Adar?”

The object of Thranduil’s temptation stood just outside the kitchen area, blinking at his Ada. Thranduil spun around to see Legolas staring at him and he blushed at the thoughts that had been running through his mind.

“Good morning,” Thranduil said, reaching for Legolas’ laced tea and holding it out to him, “Tea?”

They hadn’t spoken much since their entire ordeal had started, they had barely seen one another and Legolas was at a loss as to how to act normally around the man who was very probably his soulmate. He knew what he wanted to do. He knew that he wanted to run into his father’s arms, bury his face in his shoulder and breathe the man in. He wanted to feel his warm arms around him, his breath at his neck and his mouth tickling his skin.

Legolas’ eyes roved to the offered cup, then back up to Thranduil’s face, before he padded forward and accepted it. What else could he do? Should he have knocked the cup from Thranduil’s hand and taken his face in his hands. Perhaps he should have just grabbed him and covered his lips with his own. Maybe he still should?

Instead of acting on his desires Legolas merely smiled and took a tentative sip of the warm liquid. It tasted sharp at first, and unusual, but that soon dissipated and the milky goodness of the tea soothed his pounding head. Thranduil smiled softly and turned back to their food, glad that Legolas would not have to endure more terrible pain.

Legolas just stood there, hanging on to his tea and staring at Thranduil’s turned back. He wanted to say something, he wanted to shout that he knew… that he knew and he wanted it. He wanted Thranduil - oh; how he wanted him. But instead of following the path his heart was tugging him down, he merely took another sip and moved over to the radio. He flipped the channel, halting the classical music and allowing the deep notes and heavy bass of a rock song to filter around the kitchen.

Thranduil flinched at the change of music, the air around him suddenly crackling and filling with a deep, dark red - reminiscent of the colour of his own blood. In his fright at the change in his environment, Thranduil knocked the unsuspecting side of his palm against the hot frying pan on the stove. He yelped softly and withdrew the hand, clasping it around the wrist and holding it up as pain lanced through his arm. Thank goodness that he had already swallowed painkillers to numb the aching.

But then Legolas was by his side in an instant, his tea discarded and panic etched deeply into his forehead. He had Thranduil’s hand in his before he knew what he was doing, his concerned eyes searching for where his father was hurt. The skin of Thranduil’s palm had blistered almost immediately, the tender edges of the burn an angry red already.

“Ada! Are you alright?” Legolas asked, his eyes darting up. They met Thranduil’s - his father was closer to him than he had expected. He was mere inches away, looking down at his son with wide eyes. The colour imbued music fizzed and sparked around Thranduil when the song changed - growing deeper and darker. Thranduil did not know if it was Legolas’ touch that intensified his colours, or if it was just the change of tone in the music, but Legolas’ hair seemed to glow gold in the light.

Wait, had Legolas just called him _Ada_? His son had not used the word since he was six years old.

Legolas opened his mouth to say something more, but his words stuck and caught in his throat when Thranduil continued to stare down at him, their hands clasped together.

“I-It’s nothing… It’s not that bad…” Thranduil breathed quietly, his eyes still locked with Legolas’. Both were no longer paying attention to the burn on Thranduil’s hand, they were infinitely more interested in one another.

“You should… you should run it under cold water,” Legolas offered - still not paying the wound any attention whatsoever nor moving to turn the water on in the kitchen sink. “I’ll get something to put on it.”

But Legolas did not move. Neither did Thranduil. They both stood, quietly fascinated with one another, their hearts pounding in their chests. Legolas could see Thranduil’s individual eyelashes once more, and they fluttered prettily when his father’s eyes twitched down to glance at his parted lips. Thranduil’s ragged breaths lapped up over Legolas’ face when he moved fractionally closer, a barely perceptible move forward.

The pull was undeniable and complete and Legolas unconsciously reached upwards, his gaze tracing over his father’s beautiful features. He could not function properly when so close to Thranduil, and every restraint that he had placed on himself fell away. Damn the consequences, damn the implications, damn everything but Thranduil to hell. They were soulmates. Some force, which Legolas strongly suspected was malignant and partial to irony, had destined them to feel as they now did; who was he to argue with that? For gods’ sake, his father made his world come to life - quite literally - and that was worth any penalty he may have to pay for his actions.

“Legolas,” Thranduil growled - his eyelids half closed and his lips hanging open. His pink tongue darted out to nervously lick over his plump bottom lip, and Legolas was distracted with his imaginings of how that tongue would taste curled around his own. Perhaps his father would taste like tea - with a hint of fresh mint and a deep undertone of his own unique flavour. He could almost taste him as their mouths neared one another, both their eyes slipping closed. Just a centimetre more and he would be kissing his father.

The harsh trill of Thranduil’s phone ringing ripped the two blondes from their soft, warm bubble of colour and need. Thranduil’s eyes immediately flew open, widening when he realised just how close he was to his son. He pulled back abruptly, ripping his hand from Legolas’ grasp and clearing his throat. Legolas came to his senses more gradually, his eyes hazy when they opened. He was so caught up, so enthralled and hopelessly taken in, by Thranduil that he felt as though the world had changed when he was pulled back to it.

It was only when Thranduil turned away to answer the mobile phone that was resting on the counter top that Legolas’ thoughts became coherent enough for him to realise what had just happened.

He had almost kissed his father, _again_. He had not felt disgust, he had not felt any guilt, and he could not remember having ever felt the need to kiss anyone as strongly as he did Thranduil. But the most telling of all – his father had tried to kiss him. The look in his eyes, the fleeting gaze to his lips, the way his father’s eyes had slipped closed when he neared him all told of Thranduil’s willingness to be kissed and to kiss in return. Could it be true that his father wanted him in the same way he wanted Thranduil? But why wouldn’t he tell him that he could see the colours? Why would he keep such a special thing from his soulmate? _Why?_

Legolas was trembling, his jaw clenched and his eyes wide, when Thranduil exited the kitchen to throw on a coat in the entrance hallway. He opened his mouth to protest, to demand that Thranduil return and kiss him how he wanted to be kissed, but his father was gone from the apartment all too quickly with not even a glance at his son. Legolas stood, shaking, for a few minutes while his tortured brain desperately trying to make sense of his feelings. And then he was moving, his feet drawing him out of the kitchen and to the large, arched living room windows. He had to stand on his toes and rest a hand against the glass, but in doing so he could catch a glimpse of his father exiting their apartment building.

But Thranduil did not turn down the pavement and walk away as Legolas had expected. Instead, his beautiful father clutched the coat around his shoulders tightly and approached a dark-haired man that was leaning against the railing of the stairs to their building. Legolas’ forehead furrowed as he watched the scene unfold. He was so caught up in what Thranduil was doing that he barely noticed that the leaves on the trees that swayed in front of the window were a light, shimmering shade of green, flecked with the changing season’s reds and oranges. The reflection of the new colour threw a dappled pattern of green spots through the window and onto Legolas’ confused face. The young blonde did not even notice Gandalf hop up next to him on the windowsill, wobbling precariously to get a view of what his best friend was looking at.

Thranduil spoke with the man for a few moments, clutching his coat to himself even tighter and shivering against the cold wind that tore through the street. While the day was fine and strangely devoid of clouds, the temperature was close to freezing and the wind bit around the buildings to whip up his father’s silken hair. The man he was talking to was - Legolas hated to admit - very good looking. Though his beauty was darker and more rugged than Thranduil’s own, it was no less obvious to the young blonde standing watching the scene.

Was this why his father wouldn’t hint at the fact that he could see colour? Was this handsome man dressed in dark grey scrubs the reason? Was this… was he a doctor? Were this doctor and his father…? Was that why? Maybe he thought of their bond as some sort of hideous mistake? Perhaps he was in love with this man and Legolas was… he was an inconvenient complication. He was the twisted, delinquent son that Thranduil was burdened with.

Legolas continued to watch, his eyes beginning to prickle, as Thranduil shrugged and shook his head, fiddling with his wounded hand. The man was then touching his father, gripping his hand to examine the angry red burn that he had suffered. Legolas’ heart began to pound violently, his blood suddenly raging in his ears and drowning out any rational thoughts he may have had. A slumbering beast woke inside of his chest and it stretched out to roar its disapproval. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to act; to march down the stairs, smack the man’s hand away from his soulmate and declare that Thranduil was _his_.

But Legolas did not move – he just watched. After a few minutes of talking, and a few gestures that Legolas found suspiciously confrontational, the man in the scrubs turned, motioning for Thranduil to follow him. His father hesitated for a moment and his head twitched towards the window that provided Legolas’ vantage point. The upset young blonde darted back from the glass abruptly, the only evidence of his actions being a foggy handprint that stuck to the window.

When he gathered the courage to approach the window once more, all he could see was the retreating forms of Thranduil and the handsome doctor disappearing around corner of their street.

Legolas looked around the apartment, at a loss and feeling more alone than he ever had. Whatever isolation he had felt before paled in comparison to the sick pull that now tugged at his insides and consumed his being. This had to be it – the reason. His father was with someone, someone exceptionally good-looking, and Legolas was just a terrible problem for his father. Legolas’ mind – his jealous, lonely and pheromone addled mind – was rebelling.

Not taking any notice of Gandalf’s questioning mews, Legolas heaved a heavy sob of despair before grabbing his coat and vacating the flat. He couldn’t be there. He couldn’t be anywhere near reminders of his soulmate. So he ran – ran as far and as fast as his legs would carry him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**
> 
> It seems as though a good deal of people would like to read '12 Days of Thrandolas', so I shall begin posting it on the 14th of December 2015. Also, I have a new Thrandolas one-shot which will feature bandit!Thranduil and pirate!Legolas. It is called **Parley** , and will be up before the end of the month.
> 
> **More of my art can be found at[plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)**


	8. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil's passions (re)awaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***walks in sheepishly***
> 
> So, here's where everybody starts to hate me :)
> 
> I would like to say a special thanks to everyone who commented and subscribed on the last chapter. Thank you for the support, it really does mean a lot to me. 
> 
> Enjoy x

* * *

 Blue / bluː/ _adjective_ :  a form of electromagnetic radiation with a predominant wavelength of roughly 450–495 nm. The colour between green and violet on the spectrum of light.

Thranduil knew that he was brooding, but he could do nothing to pull himself from his own mind. His nervous eyes darted around, straining to see the colours that he knew were there. But his world had begun to fade to grey once more. He had not seen Legolas for more than a day, and it had caused his greens to completely disappear. His hair seemed lacklustre and flat without its deep gold hue and his oranges and reds were beginning to crinkle at the edges.

He had to keep himself busy; he had to stop ruminating over the loss of his colours and the worry for his son. He had been leaving messages for Legolas since he had returned from coffee with Kíli, but his young son had returned none of them. Thranduil chewed on the inside of his cheek and clasped his hands together, searching for something to take his mind off of his soulmate.

His eyes fell onto the paints and paintbrushes that he had abandoned the previous day. Thranduil sighed and stood up; he had better clean his studio space. Legolas was bound to be home soon, and what would he say if he saw the colour that was splattered around Thranduil’s studio? He would realise that Thranduil was his soulmate - and that could not happen.

Thranduil began with the sheet he placed on the ground to protect his flooring. It was dotted in flecks of deep red and what Thranduil could only assume was green, but was to him a faded grey. He folded it up and stuffed it behind a stack of blank canvases. Next was the easel; it had a large smudge of orange over one of its wooden legs - Thranduil had become over excited during his experimentation. He dabbed a smudge of turpentine onto an old rag and worked the stain from the polished wood. He was usually immaculately neat when he painted, but the previous day he had been painting in a feverish haze.

Elrond had gifted him many things when he had left Port Rivendell. It had mostly been literature and information on soulmates, but there had been a few items that the kindly doctor had included for the sheer joy of it. The prism that he had pressed into Thranduil’s hand when he had departed fascinated him. The way it threw sparkling beams of colours had enchanted Thranduil on the ride home from the tiny port town. But the most precious gift that Elrond had bestowed was _paint_.

There were many artists living in Port Rivendell, and they had spent years experimenting with pigments to create oil paint that could be used on canvas. Elrond had gifted Thranduil a box filled with small tubes of bright colours, telling him that he should begin painting again. He urged that his art would help him; it would help to make sense of the raging emotions that consumed him.

Elrond had sent Kíli to check up on him, to make sure that he was okay with all of the new information. The nurse had also urged him to paint, to express himself in the way he knew best. When Thranduil had returned to his flat after the brief meeting he and Kíli had shared, he had itched to experiment. The artist in him came clawing out to the fore, and his mind demanded that he create. It was an urge that the Thranduil was used to, but never had his inspiration been so ravenous. It compelled him, tingled at the back of his mind, and tugged at his temples and his fingers. It was impossible to resist. He had needed something to take his mind off of Legolas, and his suspicious absence, anyway.

He had begun timidly, unsure of his new medium. The colours were exciting but daunting; he had never had to worry about whether his shades had complemented each other before. He had experimented, testing out the paints and doodling to get a feel for them. The next time he had looked up from his canvas, the sun was high in the sky above London and there was paint smudged nearly to his elbows. A flash of worry for Legolas had tugged at Thranduil, but his creative impulse merely turned that worry into inspiration.

He painted Legolas. It was the first time he had ever painted purely from memory, yet he did not need the memory of his son’s face to paint him. He painted the feeling of Legolas; the sparkle in his eyes, the soft press of his hand against the burn on his hand, the quirk of his lips, and the way he gazed softly at his father when he thought he wasn’t looking.

The sun was setting by the time Thranduil had finished. He had stepped back to appraise his work, his bones heavy and his mind fuzzy from the concentration and the greedy inspiration. The piece was unlike anything he had ever created. It was loose, a departure from his tight, meticulous style. Legolas was made up of brilliant strokes of red and yellow, his face bathed in light and seeming to glow. His eyes were sparkling, gazing out at the viewer to pull them in. It was… it was how Legolas appeared in his dreams. It was his imagination’s rendering of his soulmate.

Thranduil had been exhausted after his day of painting, yet he still worried for his son. He had tried to call again, with no response. He had tried once more, still nothing. He had fallen onto the couch in the living room, intent on waiting for his son to arrive home, but sleep had claimed his weary mind and body.

He had woken up with a rough dusting of stubble, a twinge in his neck and Gandalf meowing loudly in his ear. The fat cat was hungry, as usual. It was the second night in a row that he had fallen asleep on the couch in his living room, and it brought back sweet memories of waking next to Legolas the day before. He had fed Gandalf, cobbled together something for himself to eat, and then had begun worrying about his son. Why was he not home?

Cleaning soothed his mind; he could put everything right again, as it used to be, and that calmed his fraying nerves. Though his colours had faded, though he missed Legolas’ presence terribly, cleaning made him feel better. He began with his brushes after he had finished with his easel. They were left swimming in turpentine overnight, and the acrid smell of the liquid permeated the air to settle in every corner of the room. He swirled them a few times, dislodging most of the now-grey paint that clung to them, and then moved them to the sink that was sunk into a counter lining his studio. Thranduil ran some lukewarm water, mixing in liquid soap to soak the brushes in. It was a comforting ritual for the artist and he enjoyed the gentle routine of cleaning his tools. He washed contentedly, his mind processing all that had happened to him over the past few weeks.

But then something shimmered on the edge of Thranduil’s vision and he paused in his cleaning. Thranduil did a double take, his eyes caught with the flash of a new colour in his reflection. The shiny sink showed him a fuzzy image of himself and he blinked. He blinked again… were his eyes… were his eyes blue? He leaned forwards, tilting his head in appreciation of the pale colour that radiated within his irises. But how was he seeing this new colour when he had been parted for Legolas for more than a day? Thranduil lifted his eyes in alarm - that could only mean…

Thranduil started when the door to his apartment slammed shut. He straightened and spun, his heart leaping with unrestrained joy – _Legolas_. Thank the gods he was alright.

Legolas trailed through the apartment, barely noticing Gandalf mewling happily around his feet. The cat had missed him terribly, his night alone with only a sleeping Thranduil for company had not been ideal. Legolas ducked his eyes down as he moved through the common spaces of Thranduil’s flat; he didn’t want to see his father. He had spent a tumultuous night on Aragorn’s couch, his mind torturing him with images of Thranduil and his doctor boyfriend. By the time Legolas had gathered the courage to return home, he had fully convinced himself of his father’s relationship with the man.

They had met years ago, perhaps at one of Thranduil’s exhibitions, and they had been in love ever since. They took intimate little vacations every few months, perhaps going down the coast to a cute little B ‘n B that suited them; all windswept vistas and cute architecture. And they would have brunch and take meandering walks and they would spend hours cuddled in bed, worshiping each other and falling even deeper in love.

Legolas was convinced of his heartbreak when the edge of his vision caught the tall form of his father standing over the sink in his studio. He tried to resist the urge to look at his soulmate, he really did, but the pull of Thranduil was too much for the young blonde. He shifted his eyes to glance up at his beautiful father, his gaze heavy with the sadness that he had convinced himself of. His colours shuddered and blared to life once more, flooding his consciousness. And then he glimpsed a flash of clearest blue – it was his father’s eyes staring back at him. Thranduil’s eyes matched the clear sky that hung outside the large windows of his studio. It made sense; his father’s eyes were infinite and omnipresent, of course they would be inspired by the sky. This thought did little to assuage the clenching of Legolas’ broken heart; his mind still filled with notions of Thranduil happy with someone else.

“Legolas! I was worried!” Thranduil said; a deep frown etched into his brow. He tried to keep the jittery panic of his voice buried; he had been so _worried_. He stealthily moved the paintbrushes behind his back, afraid that Legolas would notice the lingering smudges of colour that clung to them.

Legolas simply stood, staring at his father. He wanted to run to him, to lose himself in Thranduil’s arms, his scent and his glorious body. He wanted to take his face in his hands and pepper him with kisses, professing his love and adoration. He wanted to feel his strong body pressed up against his own; he wanted to surrender to him. Instead, Legolas merely stood, his jaw twitching when pervasive thoughts of Thranduil and his lover entered his mind. He thought he may die from the sorrow.

“Where did you go?” Thranduil asked, uneasy at the odd expression on his son’s face. Legolas looked as though he was struggling to hold back tears.

“I- I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Legolas whispered, averting his eyes.

An expression of confusion passed over Thranduil’s delicate features and he said, “Interrupt me?”

Legolas turned his head away, “You and the doctor you met outside, I didn’t want to… _get in the way_.”

Thranduil blinked; his confusion remaining. “Get in the way? Kíli was the nurse who attended to me when I sliced my hand open.” Thranduil threw a quick glare in Gandalf’s direction. The cat hissed at him. “He was merely… checking up on me.” It wasn’t a lie, Kíli was checking up on him; but for reasons that Thranduil conveniently sidestepped. Wait, was Legolas… jealous?

Legolas met his father’s eyes nervously, his imaginings dissipating into the corners of his mind. His heart lightened immeasurably, and he dropped his mouth open to say something. Nothing ever came to mind, and Legolas just stood, blinking at his father. He wanted to shout in happiness, he yearned to sag in relief, to cling on to Thranduil’s shoulders and whisper that he would not have been able to bear seeing him with someone else. Instead, Legolas nodded and gave his best nonchalant shrug.

“You’ve been painting?” Legolas said, changing the subject. Panic flashed through Thranduil; what if Legolas wanted to see his work? He merely nodded and turned, placing his brushes back into the sink and immersing them in the soapy water. He picked up a handful of clean brushes and began to dry them.

Legolas’ eyes lingered on his father’s form after Thranduil turned his back to dry his paintbrushes. He dabbed at the bristles and smoothed them down, unaware that his son’s eyes were fixed to the way his shoulder blades worked under his clothing. They shifted and billowed the loose shirt Thranduil wore, teasing of the toned muscles that lay beneath it.

Legolas bit his lip, his teeth worrying the chapped skin there. He had taking to biting his lips more than he usually did. His father was playing havoc with his emotions and his torture manifested itself in a few nervous habits. Legolas’ eyebrows furrowed together, trying to come up with a reason that would allow him to stay in the same room as his soulmate.

Thranduil continued to pat dry his brushes, knowing Legolas was still lingering but forcing himself to ignore him. It physically ached to disregard his soulmate, but Thranduil stuck to it. He knew that what he was doing was right for both of them. He would never forgive himself if he let his desires and feelings get the better of him. He would corrupt his young, innocent son with his love, and he could not live with himself if he allowed that to happen.

Legolas wanted to stay so incredibly badly; he wanted to be as near to Thranduil as possible. The night that he had spent away was utter agony. His colours had faded; green disappearing first. The reds, oranges and yellows had lingered for longer, but they had eventually withered also. He itched to reach out to his father; he wanted to feel his colours intensify and his world come to life once more. Though he could already feel the effects of Thranduil’s proximity reawaken them, it was not quick enough for the young blonde.

So Legolas trawled his mind for something that would keep him near Thranduil. He asked the first thing that popped into his head.

“How is- how is your hand?” Legolas stuttered, taking a small step forwards.

Thranduil turned, a few paintbrushes clenched in his uninjured hand. In his fervour to paint, he had completely forgotten about the angry red burn that marred the skin of his palm. His hands were taking a beating lately. He turned his hand over, glancing down to the wound. Legolas stepped a little closer, peering down at his father’s hand. It had healed somewhat, the place where the welt had been turning into a scab.

“It’s alright, actually. It doesn’t hurt any more.”

Legolas had now moved to stand just a few steps in front of his father, his eyes riveted to where Thranduil was burned. He used it as an excuse to keeps his eyes on Thranduil, but all he wanted was to look up into his father’s eyes; those startling blue eyes. He never imagined that anyone’s eyes could be as beautiful as his father’s were, and he feared he might get lost in their depths if he looked up.

“It certainly seems better,” Legolas said inanely. What else could he say? Everything he wanted to tell his father involved desperate pleas and gasping declarations. Was he just supposed to blurt that he was in love with him - irreversibly, completely in love? How would he even begin? What if this was all one big misunderstanding? What if his soulmate waited for him somewhere, unknown to him? Legolas’ poor, suffering mind conveniently skipped over the fact that the air crackled palpably when they were in the same room. It sidestepped the fact that his whole world came alive when he was near Thranduil.

Thranduil nodded and angled his hand towards the light to get a better view. It had healed nicely, in fact.

“Yes, it seems most of the redness has disappeared, I don’t think it’ll scar,” Thranduil muttered.

And there it was: _Confirmation_.

Legolas’ eyes flew to Thranduil’s face, widening in shock. His stomach leapt into his throat, his heart pounded out of his chest, his blood turned blazing hot in his veins; it was his father. It was Thranduil. The handsome man in front of him was his soulmate, and he was bonded to him so deeply that they made each other’s worlds more beautiful. Legolas couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he just barely prevented his knees from buckling out beneath him.

It was true. _It was all true_.

Thranduil realised his mistake too late, and he was still pondering over his hand when realisation struck. Had he said-? Oh gods, he had.

Thranduil spun his head to face his son, his eyes frightened and his quivering lips parting to spew the first excuse that came to mind. But then his gaze met Legolas’ and his mind went blank. His son’s lip shook, trembled violently when he tried to form words, but he could not make a sound. He could only stare, wide-eyed, with his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Legolas…” was all Thranduil could manage, his brow twisting together and his voice strained and cracked. What could he say? What could he possibly say that would make this thing between them okay? Legolas must be… disgusted - frightened and repulsed and utterly confused. This was it; this was the moment he would lose him forever. How could his lovely son possibly love him after finding out? How could he ever trust his father again?

But then Legolas stepped closer; reaching out his hand to his father’s face; “Ada?” Legolas whimpered, his eyes immediately filling with tears. Thranduil gulped hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat nervously. Perhaps he could talk his way out of it? If he could just think of an excuse…

“Gods, Ada,” Legolas gasped, fat teardrops beginning to roll down his fair cheeks, “I wasn’t sure and … Oh gods it _is_ you.” Thranduil blinked in confusion; Legolas had known? Had he known all along? Had he-

Thranduil’s racing mind was cut off when Legolas stood on his toes, wrapping a shaky hand around the back of his father’s neck and pulling him down into a searing kiss.

It was simultaneously too much and not enough for Thranduil. His stomach dropped to his toes and his hands flew up to grasp his son’s shoulders, his burned hand once again forgotten. The paintbrushes he had been holding clattered to the floor around their feet; forgotten and inconsequential. Thranduil dug his fingers into the rough wool of Legolas’ sweater, gripping on to him to steady himself - Legolas’ lips pressing against his shut down every faculty in his brain that was associated with reason and logic. He made to begin to push Legolas away, but his body would not obey.

But then Legolas was pressed up against him, their chests touching when he gripped onto Thranduil with his free hand, twisting and grasping his trembling fingers into the blonde hair at the base of Thranduil’s skull. Thranduil was sure that, had his eyes been open, the colours would have blinded him. Even now, with his eyes scrunched shut tightly, their hues burnt into his eyelids and lit up the dark spaces of his mind with brilliant, shimmering reflections.

Thranduil knew instinctively that this was always how it was meant to be; the colours. This was how he was supposed to experience them; with Legolas. He heaved out a great shuddering breath before he surrendered, his nervous pant caused the small hairs at Legolas’ hairline to shudder and shake. He hardly remembered pushing his son back until he hit the first solid object they encountered. But he did it; he had Legolas pressed up against a counter top within seconds, their bodies lying flush against one another.

Legolas wound his hands further into his father’s hair; the flowing golden hair that his was a mirror image of. He found himself pressed up between a hard wooden surface and his father, his feet lifted slightly off of the floor in Thranduil’s passion. And then his father’s tongue was licking out against his young lips. He parted them immediately, swallowing Thranduil’s rumbling groan. Oh gods, it was perfection. The slight stubble that had grown on Thranduil’s chin and cheeks scratched against Legolas’ smooth skin, the friction and the rubbing grazing deliciously against him. He was turned on immediately, as though a switch had been flipped, and he needed _more_. His colours radiated, burned outwards and inwards at the same time, and they fogged his mind with love and lust.

“Oh, Ada,” Legolas gasped when the hard outline of his father’s heavy cock settled next to his own throbbing arousal.

And then they were apart, ripped asunder by Thranduil himself.

Legolas gulped in a huge breath, sagging back against the counter. His eyes had trouble focusing through the colour and the passion and the relief. When he could finally see clearly he saw his father was staring at him with wide, terrified eyes; one hand clasped over his mouth and the other shuddering violently by his side.

“Ada,” Legolas tried, stepping forwards to grip on to his soulmate. He needed him, he need all of him; his hair, his eyes, his mouth, his skin, his _cock_. Thranduil’s pants were tented obscenely, but he paid them no mind; instead letting out a strangled sob into his hand. “Ada, please…” Legolas begged; he begged because he could do nothing else.

“Get out,” It was a small, broken clip of words.

Legolas’ eyes grew large in shock. “Don’t…” Legolas’ voice broke; it twisted and cracked and shattered.

“Leave, Legolas. Leave now.” Thranduil set his jaw; he tried to ignore the view he had of his son’s heart breaking clean in two.

Legolas stood, rooted to the spot.

“Leave! Don’t come back!” Thranduil barked, his eyes blazing with a fire that was unfamiliar to Legolas; it burned hot and violent with regret.

A muffled sob escaped Legolas before he rushed past his father, his colours blurring through his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**
> 
> So, 12 Days of Thrandolas is coming along well and is on track :) Parley is almost done, I hope to have it up by Monday 30th November 2015. 
> 
> **More of my art can be found at[plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)**


	9. Indigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil gets a helping hand and Legolas keeps his mind busy the only way he knows how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***wanders in***
> 
> Hi everyone. I don't know why, but this week has been rather terrible for me. I hope it doesn't come across too much in this piece.
> 
> Parley is out, a link to it can be found in the author's note at the bottom of this chapter <3
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and thank you to everyone who commented on the previous chapter! You're lovely!
> 
> Enjoy x

[ ](http://s284.photobucket.com/user/loveactuallyfan91/media/AVS%20Chapter%209_zpsgvs5tbcv.jpg.html)

* * *

 Indigo / ˈɪndɪɡəʊ/ _adjective_ : a form of electromagnetic radiation with a predominant wavelength of roughly 420–450 nm. Thecolourbetweenblue and violet on thespectrum of light.

 

Thranduil was delirious. He was cold and shivering and burning hot at the same time. He was wrapped in his bed, the sheets caught between his knees and the duvet constricting around his shoulders. His face was half buried in his pillow when he awoke from his turbulent nightmare. He gasped as his eyes opened to a blank white ceiling, and he blinked the sleep from his eyes as he rolled over, ensconcing himself further into the bedding. He was sweating and shivering all at once, his head pounding with a dull pain.

As he turned his stomach flipped over and he retched; his head swimming in pain and his vision narrowing to a point. Thankfully, he had had nothing to eat since he had last been sick, and his retching sound was not accompanied by any vomit. Thranduil’s lip quivered and he lay back in bed when his stomach righted itself. He ran a shaky hand through his greasy, limp hair and furrowed his brow in a silent plea.

All he could think of was Legolas. His dreams had been invaded with his soft lips, his desperate body and his trembling shoulders. He relieved the kiss they had shared every time he fell asleep; it was shining and wonderful for a few moments, but always descended into the most horrific nightmares. His mind tortured him with every conceivable way that Legolas could be ripped away from him - death, illness, and fiery incineration by an angry wyvern. The list was endless, and so was his torment.

It had been three days since Legolas had disappeared from his life and Thranduil could no longer see any form of colour, shimmering or otherwise. Yet what cruel irony that he still had to undergo the horrific colour-pangs of his eyes mutating to be able to see the higher end of the spectrum of light. Elrond had said they would continue despite his soulmate not being in proximity, yet it still came as an awful mockery of his situation.

Thranduil buried his hands further into his dirty hair, digging his nails into his scalp. He had not found the willpower to wash it since Legolas had left, taking his whole world with him. Thranduil’s chapped lips turned up into a grimace of desolation, though his exhausted body could not bring itself to produce tears.

“It will only get worse, Thranduil, the longer you leave it,” a gentle voice spoke from the doorway to his bedroom.

Thranduil covered his eyes with his trembling hands. He was in no mood for one of Elrond’s rational arguments as to why he should ask Legolas to return. Eventually, when Thranduil did not hear his footsteps fade away, he lowered his hands to look at the man. Elrond was leaning against the doorjamb, a worried expression creased into his forehead and a steaming cup of earl grey tea in his hand.

“Do you feel any better after your nap?” Elrond asked. It was the middle of the day, yet Thranduil’s body had demanded that he sleep. Thranduil shook his head, if anything he felt worse. Elrond pursed his lips and padded in to the room, laying the tea down on the bedside table next to the sweaty blonde in the bed. He sat down despite Thranduil not being able to meet his eyes, taking a seat on the edge of Thranduil’s huge mattress.

“The portrait of your son is very beautiful. You’re an incredibly talented artist,” Elrond said, hoping to draw some sort of response from Thranduil. The artist in front of him was extraordinary, unique even, in his ability to use colour and to see sound as hues, but he was also the most stubborn individual Elrond had ever met. Thranduil stalwartly ignored the doctor, even though he longed to talk of Legolas and his colours and his inspiration.

Elrond paused for a moment, only speaking after letting out a huge sigh of frustration, “Thranduil, you must find him. You must figure this out; heaven knows where he is or if he is all right. He shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

Legolas was very probably going through the same horrific symptoms that Thranduil was, and Elrond’s words were absolutely rational. Yet Thranduil was obstinate and he could not bring himself to ask that Legolas return. How could he look into those innocent eyes after everything that had happened?

When Thranduil did not answer him, Elrond sighed; “He is your son,”

Thranduil’s head snapped up. His tired eyes, rimmed with dark circles and blushed red from crying, bore into the doctor’s as he gasped, “It is because he is my son that I can not see him again.”

Elrond tipped his head to the side, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow in consternation. They had been having this argument for almost an entire day, ever since Thranduil had called him – exhausted and in pain – mumbling incoherently about his soulmate. The doctor was about to launch in to another argument when the sounds of rustling and soft footfalls echoed through to the bedroom.

Thranduil’s ears pricked and his eyes widened, he thought they were alone.

“My sons,” Elrond offered to assuage Thranduil’s shock, “They arrived from Port Rivendell while you were asleep.”

“Your sons?” Thranduil said in confusion, his mind spinning. For what possible reason could Elrond have invited his sons to his flat?

Elrond nodded, cringing as he heard the sound of glass cracking. “I apologise for them in advance, though I think that they may help you come to terms with your situation.”

Thranduil was baffled, how on earth could Elrond’s sons help him if even the doctor himself had been unsuccessful? Thranduil opened his mouth to protest, to demand that they leave, but Elrond shushed him with a stern glance and stood to his feet.

“Come on,” Elrond said, leaving no room for argument from the stubborn blonde, “I’ll bring your tea through, come and meet them.”

Thranduil could only watch with a slightly ajar jaw as Elrond picked up his mug of tea and disappeared through his flat. He didn’t even remember telephoning the tenacious doctor, he had been delirious with pain and heartbreak, but he regretted his actions all the same. Thranduil took a moment to massage his temples, trying to rid himself of the pounding there, before he rolled his eyes and slid from his bed. He was immediately cold, and he pulled the heavy duvet off of the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders; cocooning himself in its comforting warmth.

Thranduil trailed through his flat dejectedly, dragging the duvet on the ground behind him. He barely had the motivation to keep his eyes open, let alone pick it up off of the floor. His hair hung limply against his head, trailing down over the silken pyjamas he wore. He couldn’t bring himself to care that he would be receiving guests dressed in his sleepwear, he couldn’t even bring himself to care that he hadn’t changed his pyjamas in three days. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. He couldn’t see any colour and he had lost Legolas for good. Was it even worth continuing to breathe?

The sight that greeted Thranduil when he entered the living room momentarily distracted him from his worries. Elrond’s two sons, both dark haired and fair like their father, were trying to coax a distraught Gandalf to eat a piece of chicken. One of the young men had the fat cat in his arms, holding his flailing claws away from himself, while the other held the chicken under the cat’s nose.

“Elladan! For gods’ sake! Put the poor cat down!” Elrond said, placing Thranduil’s tea down onto the coffee table and shaking his head at his son. “Elrohir, stop waving that under his nose, he’s too upset to eat.”

Thranduil blinked a few times and sagged against the wall closest to him, dipping his head. A fuzzy delirium invaded his mind, causing his vision to stutter. When last had he eaten?

“You said that he hasn’t eaten in days, Ada, we’re just trying to help him!” Elladan said, trying to control the squirming cat. His big fat stomach spilled over Elladan’s arms as he wriggled; desperate to be away from the strange humans that had invaded his house.

“Thranduil hasn’t eaten in days either, but you don’t see me restraining him about the waist and force feeding him, do you?” Elrond said, extracting the piece of chicken from Elrohir’s hands and disposing of it. It was at that moment that the twins noticed Thranduil sagged against the wall and they looked between each other in worry. Thranduil looked terrible; all pale skin, hollowed eyes, limp hair and drawn cheeks. He looked as though he should be in a hospital.

When his captors stilled in their torture, Gandalf looked up, catching sight of his master. Thranduil’s closeness only made the cat fight harder and squirm more violently. Soon he was meowing pitifully, trying to get away.

“Let him go, Elladan,” Elrond demanded, and his son released the fat grey cat. Gandalf was a blur of grey as he darted across the living room floor, racing towards Thranduil; towards safety. The blonde was so exhausted that he didn’t even register the cat wandering between his legs, brushing up against him like he used to do Legolas, and meowing sadly.

The cat had been absolutely inconsolable when Legolas had left. He had mewed by the front door for hours, only stopping once exhaustion had overcome him. He had then fallen asleep in front of it, still hoping for his best friend to return. He would not eat a bite the day after, when Legolas was still absent, nor the day after that. The cat had never gone so long without food, and it was beginning to take its toll. He looked drawn, a little skinnier even, and he had moped around the flat for days – his desolation at the loss of Legolas becoming more and more hopeless. He had even taken to finding some comfort by curling up next to a shivering Thranduil - a sure sign that he was not in his right mind.

“I apologise for my sons’ torturing of your cat, Thranduil,” Elrond said, shooting the twins a glare. They both looked ashamed, yet they smirked sneakily at one another. “This is Elladan and Elrohir.” Elrond motioned back and forth between his offspring.

Thranduil nodded and managed to make his way to the couch, sitting where Elrond had placed his tea. He picked up the mug in trembling hands, taking a tentative sip. He felt incredibly weak; even his bones were tired. Perhaps he should eat something? Gandalf leapt up onto the couch beside his master, meowing sadly and rolling himself up into a ball in the folds of Thranduil’s duvet.

“He’s very beautiful,” Elrohir said tentatively, motioning to the form of the cat sleeping next to Thranduil. The man looked absolutely broken, body and soul, and he had no idea what he should say, “He has the most amazing yellow eyes I’ve ever seen!”

Elladan agreed, citing Gandalf’s fur as the fluffiest he’d ever encountered.

Elrond rolled his eyes and watched as Thranduil sipped on his tea, barely registering what was going on around him. He had never seen a man so utterly destroyed before, and it made Elrond nervous for what his future held. He had never encountered anyone who had rejected their soulmate; the bond was usually too all consuming to disregard. Yet here Thranduil was, doing just that, and it seemed to be killing him. He could only hope that Legolas was faring better, though he doubted it.

“I asked my intolerable sons to make the journey here to help you, Thranduil. I think you will find that you are not alone in your… unfortunate… assignment of soulmate.” Elrond said diplomatically, trying to coax Thranduil into looking up.

“Unfortunate?” Elladan gasped, placing his hand over his heart and feigning utter offense at his father’s words.

Elrond rolled his eyes. His sons were cantankerous apart, and insufferable together.

“We take offense, Ada,” Elrohir joined in, scooting closer to his twin and grabbing his hand in a show of solidarity against their father. “I think we were very fortunate. I mean, who else would ever have the patience to put up with Elladan than me?” Elrohir grinned.

“And who would have the constitution to watch Elrohir pluck his nose hairs while in bed?” Elladan fired back. The twins narrowed their eyes at each other before smirking.

“Okay, enough,” Elrond held his hands out, “Gods’, you two will be the death of me.”

The twins merely grinned at their father, wholly proud of themselves. Elrond shook his head, infinitely frustrated with his two bouncy sons. He turned his attention back to Thranduil, who was staring off ahead of him as though his eyes were not really taking in his surroundings. They were glassy and stricken, dulled with sorrow and hopelessness.

“Thranduil,” Elrond tried gently, “My sons’ went through something similar when then turned eighteen. They fought it for a while, as would be expected, but eventually they had to realise that they couldn’t deny the bond between them.”

Thranduil raised his eyes slowly, looking over the twins sadly. They both smiled warmly at him, their hands clasped together, and they nodded in encouragement.

“It was a difficult situation, it was for everyone involved, but they were accepted wholeheartedly in Port Rivendell; everyone there understands the bond. No one could deny them their happiness. In a way, they were exceptionally lucky to have grown up there, to be surrounded by people who realize how deep the bond goes.” Elrond’s eyes pleaded with the withered artist; pleaded with him to understand. “You cannot go on as you are, you cannot fight this. It’s changed you forever, Thranduil; you and your son, and it is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Thranduil stared at Elrond for a few long seconds before his face crumpled and he stuttered; “Nothing to be ashamed of? Nothing to be _ashamed_ of? I am in love with my own son, Elrond, how can I be anything but ashamed?”

Elladan interrupted his father, who had opened his mouth to speak, “I know exactly how you feel. I know that shame, and I know how it feels to fight against the bond. It’s no use to deny it, you either accept it and be happy, or it will kill you.”

“Look at yourself,” Elrohir carried on his twin’s thoughts, “You’re in pain, you can’t sleep, you can’t eat, you look like you haven’t taken a shower in a week… and for what? To deny something as special as a soul-bond?”

Thranduil grit his teeth, “Our situations are not the same – I am… I am his father and he is so very young, he… Legolas does not deserve to be saddled with me for the rest of his life.”

At the sound of Legolas’ name being spoken, Gandalf wakened from his slumber. He raised his head, looking around as though he hoped to see his best friend. He blinked, unable to see Legolas, and instead turned his head to rest it on top of Thranduil’s thigh. The cat let out a low, morose meow that drew out for longer than was necessary. He stared up with his big, yellow eyes at Thranduil, desperate and sad beyond belief.

Thranduil gazed down at his slightly skinnier cat, unable to see the yellow that he knew was there, and rested a shaky hand on top of his furry head. It seemed that the only thing that could inspire a ceasefire between them was Legolas – or rather, the absence of Legolas. It made Thranduil’s heart clench and shudder.

“Shouldn’t Legolas make that decision himself?” Elrond said softly, when all eyes were back on the artist.

Thranduil looked back up at the doctor, his brow knit together in pain. He said nothing; he merely stared, his eyes filling with tears that he refused to shed.

“You cannot make all the decisions when it comes to this, Thranduil. It’s happening to him just as much as it is happening to you, and now he is scared and alone and going through the same pain that you are. You are not protecting him, you’re killing him.”

Thranduil opened his mouth to argue, to insist that what he was doing was right. He had to protect Legolas from this thing that they had between them. It wasn’t right, nor would he allow it. Thranduil’s words died in his throat as movement by the twins caught his eye. Elrohir shifted in his seat, clasping his brother’s hand tighter in his. He stroked the skin just above his twin’s forefinger with his thumb, swirling his fingers up and down Elladan’s skin. The tender action, and Elrond’s apparent acceptance of his sons’ relationship, broke Thranduil; finally and completely.

That was all he wanted at that moment. He wanted Legolas sat beside him, his blonde hair shimmering in the waning afternoon light and his eyes sparkling up at him. He wanted to sit with his son, without fear or shame or embarrassment, and hold his hand as the twins were doing. He wanted to delicately stroke Legolas’ skin, causing goose bumps to rise all the way up his arms, over his neck and up to his pointy ears. He wanted to bathe in the red glow of the sunset with him, to soak up the vibrant greens of the trees in the park with him, to stand under the clear blue sky and see it reflected in his son’s eyes.

Thranduil dropped his head, looking down to where his hand was absently stroking Gandalf’s ears. The cat gazed up at him and meowed softly. Thranduil’s face crumpled in on itself. He couldn’t see the cat’s yellow eyes, he couldn’t see the tempestuous indigo of the storm that was brewing through the window and, worst of all, he could no longer distinguish the colours that made up Legolas’ face on the portrait he had painted days ago. He missed them, he longed for them, just as he did his son. He even missed the way he could see Elrond’s voice, and the clickety-clack of the train, and the brief glimpse of indigo that he had seen spewing from Gandalf’s furry mouth before his colours had faded.

He needed his colours back, and he needed his son in his arms. He needed to hold him and protect him and love him. He needed to beg for his forgiveness.

Elrond holding out a hand to him drew Thranduil from his epiphanies, and the doctor raised an eyebrow at him before saying, “We’ll help you.”

**§§§**

Legolas had no idea why his head ached so, or why his eyes felt as though they were burning. All he could guess was that it had something to do with being away from his soulmate, but that was of no comfort to the young blonde. Legolas had his hand clasped to his head and his face scrunched up into a grimace of pain when he wandered through from Haldir’s back room. His friend had let him crash on an air mattress at the back of his store for a few nights, and he now looked at him with concern when he emerged.

“Leggy, are you sure you’re alright? You look awful, and you haven’t eaten a single thing since you’ve been staying here,” Haldir said, moving to get a better look at his young friend. Legolas shook his head and shrugged, hoping that Haldir would drop the subject.

He did not.

“What happened with you and your father? Did you have a fight?” Haldir tried, appraising the dark circles under Legolas’ eyes. It looked as though he hadn’t slept properly in days.

“Sort of, yeah. But can we not talk about it, Haldy. Please?” Legolas begged, massaging his temples to try and alleviate the throbbing. He didn’t know what was worse, the headaches, the heartbreak or the fact that he could no longer see any kind of colour whatsoever.

“Okay,” Haldir said, not completely convinced that Legolas was all right, “But you do need to eat something. How about I close up and we get a bacon butty?” He knew they were Legolas’ favourite. But he shook his head and scrubbed a hand across his face; he couldn’t face food, not when he could barely stand up for the pain that was weighing down his heart.

“I have to go out… I have to… do something,” Legolas said evasively. Haldir merely looked at him with a worried expression, wringing his hands distractedly, and watched Legolas pull on his coat and beanie and head for the door with his backpack slung over a hunched shoulder.

Haldir opened his mouth to demand that Legolas stay, that he eat something before he disappeared for the day, but he was gone before he got the chance. Legolas vanished into the crowds in the street, merging with the heaving grey mass of humanity that called London home.

Legolas walked quickly despite feeling rather weak and terribly faint. He kept his head down; his face shielded form the wind and the light drizzle. Dark, ominous clouds had rolled over the city and Legolas longed to see what colour they were. He was consumed by his sadness. He wondered how the people who walked next to him could not see it. His heart was broken, and it felt to him as though the pieces of it were sticking up from out of his chest, maiming him for all the world to see. How could other people not see how damaged he was?

He tried to push his heartbreak from his mind; he tried not to think about his father’s blue eyes, or his warm red mouth, or his golden hair… or how soft his lips were when they were pressed to his… or how hard he was when he was against him…

Legolas shook his head and rounded a dingy grey corner on a dingy grey road. Now that he new what colour looked like, now he knew how colour _felt_ , the world had lost all its magic. Legolas was alone and cold and hurting, and he did the only thing he could think of that made him feel better. He painted. Not on canvas, like his beautiful father, but on any deserted wall he could find.

He had this insane idea. He had this notion that Thranduil would walk past one day. His father would walk past one of his pieces and stop and stare… and he would know that it was Legolas who had painted it, and he would come and find him. He would show up, drenched in rain and shivering from the cold, and Legolas would simply fall into his arms. His father would hold him and rock him back and forth and tell him that he loved him; that he forgave him and that he was sorry. And then he would kiss him, just a chaste kiss to his forehead, but it would hold so much love and warmth and _colour_ …

It was the fantasy that kept Legolas alive. It was the promise and the hope that kept him from completely falling apart. Perhaps one day his father would see his work and realise that he loved him… Perhaps. Maybe. One day. It was all one and the same for Legolas’ tortured mind.

Legolas dropped his backpack at a suitable place, just off of one of the main roads, and he extracted the cans of spray paint that Haldir had given him. Though it was a dank, dark grey colour, the side of the can purported that it was red. Legolas took a deep breath and looked up to the wall that he was about to deface. He let out a shaky, weary breath and began to paint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**
> 
> My new Thrandolas one-shot, [Parley](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5318831), is out :)
> 
> **More of my art can be found at[plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)**


	10. Violet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil searches for Legolas on the grey, rainy streets of London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***smiles***
> 
> Hi! Thank you very much to everyone who left such lovely comments! I very much appreciate your feedback, even if it's just a few lines letting me know what you think of the characters/storyline. It is all amazing! Thank you! <3
> 
> My beta, [ofplanet_earth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth), is back from her insane [30 days of Barduil](http://archiveofourown.org/series/346025) challenge. So this chapter has been checked, for your reading pleasure :)
> 
> There is a little teaser for 12 Days of Thrandolas in the chapter notes at the bottom <3
> 
> Enjoy x

* * *

Violet /ˈvʌɪələt/ _adjective_ :  a form of electromagnetic radiation with a predominant wavelength of roughly 380–450 nm. The last colour able to be seen on the spectrum of visible light.

 “It went straight to voicemail again,” Elrond said, frowning and pulling Thranduil’s phone away from his face.

Thranduil blinked dejectedly at Elrond, wringing his hands together. He had been too afraid to phone his son; too afraid of hearing the hurt he had caused. Elrond had been trying to call Legolas for over an hour with no luck; every call ending with Elrond being put straight through to voicemail.

“His phone must be off,” Elladan offered, “Or dead.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened and his heavy brow furrowed. Elrond shot his son a withering look; a look that begged that he not make the situation worse. Elladan shrugged and turned to his brother, who was trying to coax Gandalf over to him by making high pitched purring noises.

“Do you know where he would be, Thranduil?” Elrond asked, ignoring his sons and studying the artist’s worried face.

Thranduil pursed his lips and thought for a moment, before realising that he did not know anything about Legolas’ life before he had come to stay with him. He knew where his mother used to live and that his son liked pizza, but that was all he had known of the younger Legolas.

He shook his head dejectedly, his eyes pleading with Elrond for help, “I know where he used to live, but –but that’s all.”

“It’s a good place to start,” Elrond said, smiling comfortingly at Thranduil. He had to give him some sort of hope, though he knew that they had to find Legolas as quickly as possible. “Elrohir, for gods’ sake, stop torturing the cat. Get your coats on, both of you; you’re coming along to help. Thranduil, let’s get you in some clothes.”

Thranduil was grateful for the doctor; he was grateful that someone else was in charge –it allowed him to cling to hope. They would find Legolas; they would see him wandering the streets and Thranduil would apologise. He would beg for forgiveness and enfold his son in his arms and everything would be better… The empty feeling in his bones would dissipate and he would feel whole once more.

Thranduil allowed Elrond to help him up and guide him to his bedroom. He was weak, and his body was weary from his troubles, though he found the strength to pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater. He thought of Legolas; he thought of his smile and his eyes and his shining golden hair, and it gave him the motivation to pull on a pair of boots. The delicate curve of his jaw and the thought of his pretty eyebrows allowed Thranduil to make it out of the apartment; wrapped in a coat and scarf and followed closely by Elrond and his two rambunctious sons.

Thranduil kept his focus on Legolas throughout their cab journey. He stared out of the window as they drove to where Legolas’ use to live, his eyes roaming over every solitary figure he saw, trying to determine if it was his son or not. A clawing dread began to reach up through Thranduil, clogging his throat with desperation and bringing tears to his eyes.

He didn’t know what he would do if they found that something had happened to his soulmate. How would he ever live with himself knowing what he had done? That his last words to his beautiful son had been angry and uncalled for? What if they found him and Legolas refused to forgive him? What if he had closed his heart to Thranduil forever?

Thranduil bit his lip as he and his search party drove through the gloomy streets of London. The storm that had been threatening all day looked as though it may finally come to fruition; the air had become alive with the grumble of thunder and fat droplets of rain. Elrond watched Thranduil, worry etched deeply into his brow. He hoped that Thranduil had come to his senses in time.

**§§§**

Legolas had been painting all morning. He had run himself ragged; there was a pain behind his tired eyes and his hands were covered in dried grey paint that should have been red to his eyes. He sat, his back against a cold brick wall, and tried to summon the motivation to pick himself up off of the floor. His latest piece, a large blood-red heart that was dripping with his aching feelings, was painted on the wall above him. He had barely found the strength to sign it ‘GL’, before his legs had given out and he had slumped against the wall.

He knew he needed food, his body had been running on empty for far too long, but he could not bring himself to eat. All he could think of was Thranduil, and the way he had pushed him away. The look in his father’s eyes as he had shouted at him to leave was burned in to his mind, and he could not shake it.

It was some sick, twisted sense of hope and unconditional love that allowed Legolas to push himself up and sling his backpack over his shoulder. He had to create as many pieces as he could; it was an homage as well as a message to his father. He wanted to paint as many works as possible to get Thranduil’s attention, yet every piece he painted broke the pieces of his shattered heart even further. It was a torture that was self-inflicted; yet it gave Legolas’ life some purpose.

He stumbled out of the alleyway; away from his heart and the empty cans of spray paint he had tossed to the floor in his haste to finish the piece. The smell of toasting bread filled his nostrils and Legolas’ stomach growled at him –demanding to be fed. He ignored it for a few steps, but his vision became blurry as he tried to work through the hunger and swirling dizziness filled his head. He had to lean heavily against a wall, breathing in gulps of chilly air to right himself. Perhaps he could stomach just one toasted cheese and tomato sandwich?

Once Legolas began eating his hunger intensified. Soon he was on to his third sandwich and his second cup of steaming hot tea. He had found a tiny café, which looked well below health code standards, and was hunched over a small, rickety table as he ate. He knew it was only his hunger clouding his judgement, but it was the best food Legolas had tasted in a long time. His heart began to feel lighter as he ate, every bite soothing him and causing him to forget about his problems for just a moment.

Legolas raised the last morsel of his sandwich to his lips, perfectly prepared to order another, when he spotted it. A piece of grilled tomato was clinging to the toasted bread in front of his eyes, a little soggy and a bit sad, but that was not what caught his attention. The tomato was… it was red. It was tinged crimson at the sides, with the flesh of the fruit remaining a bland grey. Legolas blinked in shock, staring down at the sandwich in his hands with a look of utter disbelief. Gradually, his red intensified, creeping across the tomato to render it in its full glory.

It was when the molten cheese that was dripping down from the crust began to turn yellow that Legolas was snapped from his surprise. His colours returning could only mean one thing – _Thranduil_.

Legolas dropped the remains of his sandwich and spun around, his eyes roving around the café. His father must be near. He must be within his eyesight, he _must_ be. The first clashes of thunder rumbled through the frigid air as Legolas darted out of the café, his eyes desperate and his food forgotten. He flung his head from side to side, searching for the tall form of his father, or a swish of blonde, or a flash of blue. But all he was met with was tired, depressing greys.

Legolas gulped, letting out a small whimper of pain, and then he began to run. He didn’t know why, nor where he was running to, but he ran nonetheless. His eyes bore into every tall man or flick of long hair he encountered, but none were his father. The clouds above him swirled and rippled, the heavens finally opening as they had threatened to all day. In seconds, rain was pelting down around a very distressed Legolas, obscuring his vision and only letting him see a few metres in front of himself.

He spun helplessly, unconcerned that he was becoming drenched with rainwater. He squinted and slowed his legs, now merely hurrying through the crowds that were taking cover from the rain. Fat droplets pounded against Legolas’ head, soaking his hair and causing it to stick to his face as he walked. His shoes began to fill with water, the rain soaking in from above and puddles invading from below. Yet he kept on searching, kept on desperately darting between buildings and peering in to waiting cabs.

Eventually, after running haphazardly around the twisting streets, Legolas realised that he was far from where he had started, and his colours had again faded to grey. He clasped a limp strand of his own hair between his fingers and tried to see the yellow –strained to see it –but he could not. They were gone, and for a moment Legolas was sure that he had lost his mind. The time away from his soulmate had finally driven him mad; the ache of being away from Thranduil had finally tortured him into insanity. He should have expected it, really. He was surprised it had taken this long.

But then Legolas’ thoughts cleared, and a bolt of truth lanced through his confusion, pain and weariness. There was only one possible reason for Thranduil to be in that part of town. He never ventured very far from the places he knew, nor would he ever visit such an inconsequential, dilapidated part of London without a good reason –and that reason was Legolas. Thranduil must be searching for him, he _must_ be. He must have passed by the café; he must have just missed seeing Legolas sitting in the window… he _must_ have.

A small smile tugged at Legolas’ cold lips and he laughed suddenly, the sound floating through the air and echoing around him, barely able to be heard over the rain. His father was _looking_ for him, Thranduil wanted to see him… Perhaps he had changed his mind? Legolas’ eyes widened and he scrabbled around in his pocket, a sudden realisation hitting him square between the eyes. He took cover under a sad, flapping awning and glanced down to his phone. He cursed out aloud –dead. How could he have forgotten to charge it? How could he have been so stupid?

But still, the smile did not fade from Legolas’ face. It did not matter if he’d missed his father’s calls, it did not matter if he’d passed him by on the street, missing him by mere metres –none of it mattered. Legolas knew where his father would be come the end of the day. He would be where he always was, and Legolas would wait for him.

Legolas spun around, his face bright and his body feeling lighter than it had in days. He broke out into a run once more, this time heading in the direction of Thranduil’s apartment. He had kept his key; his father had been too distressed and angry to notice that he hadn’t left it behind when he had departed. Legolas’ heart leapt at the prospect of returning to the place where he had fallen in love with Thranduil.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he hurried through the streets and down through the first tube station he came across. He would be warm, and safe, and waiting for Thranduil when he returned. He would dry himself off, take that giant bundle of grey fur that passed for a cat into his arms, and wait for his father. And then he would beg for his forgiveness, he would fall to his knees and _beg_ for Thranduil to allow him to stay.

**§§§**

Thranduil’s entire body trembled as he rode up in the lift to his apartment. Elladan and Elrohir both looked to their father with worried eyes, their gazes flicking back and forth between the doctor and the artist. Elrond merely hung his head, his brow furrowed and his shoulders hunched.

They rode the elevator in silence for a few moments before Elrond lifted his eyes to Thranduil and said, “We’ll find him, Thranduil. He can’t have gone far.”

Thranduil did not respond. He stared blankly at the doors of the elevator, his arms clutched around his shoulders. He was soaked to the bone and every inch of fabric that covered him was wet. He had wandered the streets of London for hours in the pouring, swirling rain –searching in vain for his son. A few minutes after he had begun his search, Thranduil had been sure that he could see flickers of colour and he had shouted to Elrond and his sons that Legolas was near. He had searched with a near rabid intensity, not stopping or slowing down even when he could not see through the pouring rain. Elrond had had to physically drag him home, his unsuccessful search making him delirious and wracked with guilt and worry.

Now he stood, silently dripping water all over the elevator floor, with three sets of worried eyes boring in to him. Thranduil sniffed softly and his bottom lip shook as he tried to restrain his tears. Thank the gods he was wet; the rivulets of water dripping down his cheeks masked the flowing tears that leaked from his eyes.

“Elrohir and I will go out again in a while,” Elladan offered, looking to his twin. “We’ve always been good at finding things, don’t worry.”

Thranduil was grateful for their help, even though he could not express it. He merely stood, lonely and heartbroken, and gave a small nod. Maybe he was going insane? Perhaps the time away from his soulmate had tortured him into seeing colour where there was none? It was possible that Legolas was not even in London, that he'd fled the city after his father’s hurtful words had wounded him. It was possible that he would never find his soulmate and he would be cursed to life his life without him.

The twins took Thranduil's small nod as a good sign, and gave resigned smiles to their father. Elrond worried his lip with his teeth, his eyebrows creased into a frown. He was concerned for the blonde who had become his friend. He had never seen soulmates torn asunder in such a way, and the glassy stillness of Thranduil’s eyes made him nervous. He resolved to keep a very close eye on him while the twins searched for Legolas.

When the lift reached the penthouse it pinged happily, the noise slicing through the atmosphere in the elevator. Thranduil blinked and stepped out first, squelching through the entranceway and to his front door. He opened it in a trance, simply going through the motions, and he let himself in without much thought.

“I’ll change,” Thranduil said softly, barely able to be heard by the others, and he began to peel his sodden coat from his shoulders.

“I’ll make a pot of tea,” Elrond offered, staring after Thranduil with sad eyes. He didn’t know how much more his friend could take. They needed to find Legolas, quickly. Elrond was about to follow Thranduil, to offer more words of comfort –to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid while he was away from them –but the artist had stopped dead in his tracks. Thranduil’s eyes widened and he paused, halfway through removing his wet coat and blinking at the apparition he saw in front of him.

There, gazing at the colour portrait Thranduil had painted, was Legolas, Gandalf purring happily in his arms. The fat cat had glassy eyes as he looked up at his best friend, his little world complete once more. Legolas had been so entranced by the painting of himself that he had not noticed the small search party enter the flat. He had not even registered that his colours were beginning to creep back in at the edges, swimming back into his vision and saturating it with life.

Thranduil let out a shaky breath, his voice catching in his throat and coming out of his mouth in a garbled mess.

Legolas, startled by the sound, spun around –his eyes locking with his father’s from across the room. Thranduil looked _terrible_. He knew that he himself did not look too healthy, but his father appeared positively on his deathbed. He was soaked –wet from head to toe –and his blonde hair stuck to his shoulders and his hollowed cheeks. He looked as though he hadn’t eaten in a month, and his eyes were faded and glazed.

“Legolas?” The name rasped through Thranduil’s broken lips and echoed from the corners of the room.

Legolas’ mouth opened and his eyebrows furrowed, but he could not think of a single thing to say but “Ada.” He had spent hours waiting for Thranduil, preparing what he would say, but now every hushed plea and solemn apology fled his mind and he simply stood; a deer caught in the headlights.

A small smile crept onto Elrond’s face as he stood watching the scene unfold in front of him. The twins entered the space slowly, peeking their heads around the door to see what the commotion was. Elrond backed away from the blondes, making a shooing motion with his hands at his sons. They both raised their eyebrows and whispered their dissent at being shooed away. But the doctor insisted, dragging his sons from the flat to give Thranduil and Legolas their privacy.

Legolas gulped and let the fat grey cat in his arms slide down to plop on to the couch. Gandalf was not happy to be away from his best friend’s embrace and he meowed loudly in protest. But Legolas did not hear him. His brain could not process anything that was not his father.

Thranduil still stood where he had stopped; his heart pounding and his mind filling with racing thoughts. His colours raged to life in front of his eyes –brighter than ever and overwhelming in their intensity. The clouds that hung outside the large arched windows flickered with violet and they hung heavy and saturated with the colour in the sky. Violet framed Legolas as he stood, nervous and fidgeting, staring at his father.

“Ada, I…” Legolas began, but trailed off when Thranduil stepped towards him. His eyes blinked, startled when his father kept moving. Thranduil had no control over his legs; they knew what they wanted, they knew where they wanted to be, and he was powerless to stop them. Thranduil’s mask fell apart as he neared his son; his face crumpling and his tears flowing unabashedly down his wet cheeks.

His weak legs stumbled, but he kept on moving forwards –towards his soulmate. Legolas’ eyes were huge as his father neared him, and he reached out his hands to him; acting purely on instinct.

“Ada,” Legolas said once more; this time the word was spoken as a hushed prayer; a plea for acceptance. But Legolas no longer had to beg.

Thranduil was in his arms all at once, his soaking body pressed hard up against him. And then his father let out a strangled sob, burying his face into the soft warm skin of Legolas’ neck, and his shaky legs gave out.

“Legolas,” he panted, now sobbing openly. The young blonde was weakened and so overwhelmed by the colour and the man in his arms that he was not able to support Thranduil’s weight. His father clung to him as they sunk downwards, their legs folding up under them as then collapsed on to the floor. Legolas barely noticed –all he could focus on was that his father was in his arms.

“I’m so… I’m so sorry,” Thranduil gasped in to Legolas’ neck. He trembled, his entire body shaking, though it was not because of the cold. “Forgive me, ‘Las… Please forgive me…”

Legolas dug his fingertips into his father’s back, squishing them into the wet material. Thranduil sobbed and clung to Legolas more tightly, scrabbling around his son’s shoulders as he tried to get as close as possible. Legolas buried his face into Thranduil’s wet hair and breathed in deeply, his father’s scent comforting him as it had always done.

They stayed that way a while –both clinging to one another and huddled on the floor of the living room for many minutes. Eventually, Legolas was the one to pull back. He extracted himself from his father, gently brushing the damp strands of Thranduil’s hair back as he cupped his cold face with warm hands. He smiled down at Thranduil, the pain gradually vanishing from his wet eyes.

Thranduil blinked up at his son, his vision clearing from all the tears he had shed. He felt more alive than he had in days; his soul finally at peace when he was in Legolas’ arms. Thranduil took a deep, steadying breath and brought his own hands up, framing Legolas’ face and rubbing gently at his blushed cheeks.

“Ada,” Legolas hummed, his eyes sparkling to life. Thranduil blinked rapidly, thinking his own eyes were deceiving him. There, at the centre of Legolas’ irises, were rings of purest violet shining out at him. They faded at the edges of his eyes, swirling into a vibrant purple. Thranduil was sure that he had never seen anything as beautiful as his son’s violet eyes.

“I love you,” Legolas whispered, his voice shaky and filled with nervous stumbling, and Thranduil immediately revised his thoughts; Legolas’ words were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Tendrils of sparkling violet flowed from Legolas’ mouth in a hue that exactly matched his eyes. The words were breath-taking, and he couldn’t believe that they were meant for him.

“I love you,” Thranduil answered in a voice that did not seem like it was his own; it was rough and it cracked over the syllables of the sentence.

Then Legolas reached forwards, bumping their noses together as he did, and Thranduil’s thoughts stilled their swirling. Legolas went cautiously, his nerves on edge from the way his father had reacted the last time he had kissed him, and brushed his lips against Thranduil’s. It was just a touch; brief and sweet, and he drew back, searching his father’s face for signs of rejection. When he found none, when all he saw was sorrow and love and desperate want, Legolas leaned forwards again, this time parting his lips and laying a hot kiss against his father’s quivering mouth.

Their lips parted with a soft, sweet pop, their breaths mingling and swirling across one another’s cheeks. Legolas waited, his heart in his throat, for his father to make the next move. All he wanted was to force his lips against Thranduil’s, to ravage his pretty mouth and show him just how much he had missed him, but he was frightened. He was too scared of the rejection and the pain that he had already experienced at the hands of his father. He had to wait for Thranduil to decide, though it killed him to do so. He prayed that his father would let him in. It was all he wanted; to be let in to Thranduil’s world, to _share_ it with him.

Thranduil breathed heavily for a moment. He fought it; he fought the pull for a second, his mind screaming at him that it was so _wrong_. But then he surrendered; he was too weak for anything else. Legolas’ lips flirting with his overrode any doubts he may have had. His son was holding him so tenderly, supporting him so gently as he waited for his father to kiss him, that Thranduil’s heart almost broke with the amount of love that was pumping through it. How could he do anything else but kiss his soulmate?

Legolas squeaked and sagged against his father when he gripped him tightly, pulling their mouths together once more. This time Thranduil was not just some submissive participant; he devoured his son, as he had been wanting to for weeks. Their lips clashed and rubbed over one another, their teeth clinking and their tongues licking out to taste the other’s flavour. It was a desperate, decadent kiss that left them both pounding with want and panting against each other when they finally broke apart for air.

Legolas was grateful that they were already sitting, for he feared he would have collapsed had they not been. He gulped and rested his forehead against his father’s, having to close his eyes against the brightness of his colours. When he finally opened them, the blue of Thranduil’s irises nearly blinded him.

“Do you know that your eyes are violet?” Thranduil whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**
> 
> 12 Days of Thrandolas starts on Monday! Eep! Here's a sneak peak of the cover art for Day 1 ([Day 1: Baubles and Bordeaux](http://plotbunniesincolour.deviantart.com/art/12-Days-of-Thrandolas-Day-1-Cover-Art-577328846))
> 
> I am going on leave from work today, for a 3 week beach vacation O.O, so forgive me if I don't reply to your comments and love straight away! But I will get to them, I promise <3
> 
> **More of my art can be found at[plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)! Come and say hello, I don't bite <3**


	11. Ultraviolet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil resists his natural urges in favour of going slowly with his young son. Legolas tries his luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ***pants***
> 
> I'm sorry this is so late, but 12 Days of Thrandolas is killing me, slowly but surely... uuuugh. Here is the next chapter of A Violet Sky. I hope you like it! <3 There will be no AVS post next week, as it is Christmas day, but I will resume posting on the 1st January 2016. This week is a little shorter than normal, but I promise I will make up for it next time!
> 
> I have finally decided on what my next multi-chapter piece will be. I will be attempting a sequel to Tale as Old as Time, beginning in January 2016 :)
> 
> I thought Gandalf was too cute not to have a portrait done that was just him (and his favourite food).
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Enjoy x

[ ](http://s284.photobucket.com/user/loveactuallyfan91/media/AVS%20Chapter%2011_zpsqgi1spym.jpg.html)

* * *

Ultraviolet /ʌltrəˈvʌɪələt/ adjective: a form of electromagnetic radiation with a predominant wavelength of roughly 10 - 380nm. Although lacking the energy to ionize atoms, long-wavelength ultraviolet radiation can cause chemical reactions, and causes many substances to glow or fluoresce.

It had been a long, tumultuous day for both father and son. Elrond and his sons had returned to the apartment after a while; the doctor worried about how Thranduil’s encounter with his son would turn out. He was infinitely happy when he had entered the flat and seen a beaming Thranduil and an equally incandescent Legolas.

Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir stayed for a while. The doctor wanted to check Legolas over, to make sure he was all right and healthy, before he left. Legolas fascinated the twins. They were only a few years older than him and they had struck up an immediate friendship. Thranduil was always amazed at how well Legolas took to others. While he was dark and moody and adverse to most people, Legolas was light and pure and so very loving to all. He couldn’t quite believe that someone so utterly amazing was _his_ , his soulmate - the missing part of himself.

After Elrond had given Legolas the all clear, he tugged Thranduil away from their sons, a serious look pasted all across his face and a wary look in his eyes.

“You both need to eat something,” he had said, eyeing Thranduil sternly. “And you need to talk. You need to explain what has been happening to the both of you. He didn’t have me to help him, Thranduil; he needs his soulmate for that now.”

Thranduil nodded, knowing that Elrond was right. The doctor blinked a few times, driving his point home with a heavy silence, before he leaned forward and pulled his artist friend into a tight hug. Thranduil was startled for a moment, but patted Elrond on the back as the hug lingered.

They said their goodbyes without much fuss, though the twins had insisted that their new young friend and his soulmate visit them in Port Rivendell soon. They also insisted that they bring Gandalf along, who they had spent half an hour trying to catch to cuddle goodbye. Gandalf had avoided the twins expertly, his fight and spirit having returned with Legolas’ presence.

Once the trio had left, Legolas turned to his father. A questioning look settled across his face as he asked, “Port Rivendell?”  
Thranduil smiled and reached out, stroking a wisp of blonde hair out of his soulmate’s eyes and said; “Pizza first, then we can talk.” Legolas’ eyes lit up and he realised how hungry he was when his stomach growled and gurgled its approval at the mention of food.

The pizza arrived quickly; large and cheesy and just how Legolas liked it. His body was crying out for food, and the smell of pizza and the wondrous, heady events of the day had Legolas’ blood pumping with excitement. Gandalf, driven half mad by the smell of molten cheese, was mewing around the pizza box, his eyes wide and glassy with hunger. He knew that Legolas loved pizza, and the smell of it reminded him of his best friend.

Legolas bit his lip as Thranduil opened the box, exposing the cheesy goodness that lay beneath. He broke a piece off for himself gently, the pizza so thin and freshly made that it came apart with ease. He moved to place his piece of pizza on a waiting plate, licking some cheese that had stuck to the side of his fingers as he did. Legolas watched his father’s every movement, entranced by Thranduil and his seeming acceptance of their new relationship.

Legolas couldn’t help himself in that moment. He had to touch Thranduil; he had to feel him against his skin. Without much thought or deliberation on how Thranduil would react, Legolas stepped up behind his father and wrapped his arms around his waist. He snaked his hands over Thranduil’s defined abs and pulled his body against his back, resting his cheek on his protruding shoulder blade.

Taken quite by surprise, Thranduil started and dropped the piece of pizza he was extracting from the box. After a moment of stunned shock, Thranduil leaned backwards a little, revelling in the warmth that radiated form his son and the way their bond strengthened and crackled with electricity when they touched. All his colours shimmered and strengthened.

“Legolas,” Thranduil moaned. Legolas grinned wide and slipped his hands a little lower, flirting with the top of his father’s pants. Thranduil’s eyes flew open and he went rigid when he realised where his son’s hands were headed. Panic, and all of his old misgivings about their situation, flooded through his body. A niggling voice at the back of his head whispered that it was wrong – _so wrong._

“Ada?” Legolas asked, confused when Thranduil pulled out of his grasp, picking up his piece of pizza and moving away from his son.

Thranduil swallowed hard and met Legolas’ searching eyes with some hesitation. He said nothing. Gandalf, sensing his chance, moved closer to the pizza box; his eyes trained resolutely on the food.

Confusion swirled through Legolas’ violet eyes; “I don’t understand? Did I do something wrong?” He looked so forlorn in that moment that Thranduil’s heart almost broke. His immediate instinct was to rush to his son, to take him in his arms and make him aware of just how much he wanted him. But he resisted.

“No,” Thranduil said hurriedly, and Legolas’ eyes cleared somewhat but not completely. “No, iôn-nín, of course not. I just think we should take this… slowly. I don’t want to rush in to anything.”

The confusion returned to Legolas’ wide eyes. “Slowly?” Legolas said, trying to wrap his head around what his father was saying. “But you and I… we’re soulmates.” It was barely more than a whisper.

Thranduil took a step forwards, his fingers itching to take Legolas’ hand. “Legolas, you’re very young and I’m… not. I don’t want to… to force you into anything.”

“But I want to,” Legolas said softly. He felt very alone at that moment – alone and unwanted. Maybe his father was not attracted to him in the way he was? “Do you not want me?”

Thranduil placed his slice of pizza down once more, looking to his son with great seriousness. “I want you more than anything, ‘Las. I want nothing more than to show you just how much, but I could not live with myself if I caused you any more pain. I think we should wait, until you’re… ready.”

“I am ready!” Legolas scoffed, incredulous at his father. Thranduil merely gave him a small smile and knit his heavy eyebrows together. Legolas was barely eighteen - even if he weren’t his son, Thranduil would feel uncomfortable making love to one so young. He loved Legolas too much to make yet another mistake in their relationship.

“Legolas-” Thranduil began, trying with all his considerable willpower to resist his son. Legolas looked so utterly beautiful, so confused and willing, that it was torture for Thranduil to deny him. He was cut off when Legolas strode over to him, reaching up on his toes to press his warm lips against his father’s.

“I’m ready,” Legolas mumbled against Thranduil’s open lips, interspersing his words between hot, delicious kisses. Thranduil sighed and reached up, wrapping his hands around Legolas’ face and twisting, angling their mouths to take advantage of those sinful lips. They kissed sweetly and tenderly for a few moments, Thranduil soaking up all the affection and love that Legolas had to give, before he pulled away and looked down sadly at his panting son.

“I’m not.”

Legolas blinked once, but his eyes registered acceptance and he smiled coyly up at Thranduil. “You’ll kiss me though? Whenever I want?”

A grin worked itself across Thranduil’s tired, but happy, face. “I will kiss you whenever you’ll let me.”

Legolas beamed, stretching to kiss his beautiful father once more. Though he had relented this time, Legolas would not give up. He wanted Thranduil, he wanted him more than he needed breath in his body, and he could not wait. As they kissed, chastely and far too sweetly for Legolas’ liking, his mind began to whirr with the first flickering of a plan.

**§§§**

Thranduil had not felt more at peace in his entire life. The cause of his tranquillity was his son, who was curled up against him, his cheek lying in his lap, fast asleep. The day had been long and fraught with emotions, and Thranduil could not deny Legolas his sleep; even though all he wanted to do was gaze into those violet eyes. He combed his hands through his son’s golden hair, smiling blissfully and revelling in the feel of the soft strands slipping through his fingers. Legolas sighed, his nose twitching, and nuzzled further in to his father’s lap. Thranduil closed his eyes and took a pause to commit every detail of Legolas, as he was in that lovely moment, to memory.

They sat had together for hours, devouring their pizza, with Legolas’ eyes wide as Thranduil explained all he had come to know about soulmates and where he had gotten the information. Occasionally Legolas would stop him to ask a question – especially when Thranduil explained that he could see sound as brilliant tendrils of colour - but for the most part he just stared at his father; his violet eyes sparkling. His young face had lit up with absolute joy when Thranduil produced the blood red scarf that Elrond had gifted him and the small prism that refracted beams of pure sunlight into an infinite array of colour.

He was even more astounded at the array of paints that Thranduil had received, and had run his hands over them reverently, his eyes soaking in the colours. Being so close to his father for most of the day had solidified his colours. They now blared out at him happily, not shimmering or pale at all. He could see everything in glorious Technicolor – he had never been so utterly content in all his short life.

Unfortunately, the events of the day had sapped Legolas’ tired body of all its strength, and he lay in Thranduil’s lap, passed out to the world and happy to be touching his soulmate. His dreams were clearer than they had been in weeks - joyful and bright and filled with his smiling father.

Thranduil gazed down at his sleeping son for a while longer before he moved him. Carefully, trying his best not to wake Legolas, he cradled his head and slipped his hands under his son’s lithe young body. He was much taller and stronger than Legolas, and he lifted him with relative ease form the couch and up in to his arms.

Gandalf was lying, sated and very happy, on the kitchen counter when Thranduil passed him. He had a piece of pizza under his paw and a smug look on his furry face. He narrowed his yellow eyes at Thranduil and meowed in alarm at seeing his best friend being carried by his father. Completely disregarding his pizza in favour of Legolas, the fat cat hopped off of the counter. He was a sluggish, his full stomach preventing him from moving too quickly, but he trotted after the pair with as much haste as he could manage.

When Thranduil reached the corridor off of which their rooms emanated, he hesitated. Should he take Legolas to his bed? Lay him down on his silk sheets and cuddle him as they both took a nap? Or should he place his son on his own bed and remove temptation? Cursing himself as he did, he entered Legolas’ room and lay him down as gently as he could onto the soft cotton sheets. Gandalf leaped up next to Legolas, curling up into a rotund grey ball of fur and falling into a deep sleep.

He sat and gazed at his lovely son for a few moments, stroking his silky cheek with the back of his hand. Legolas was perfect, utterly perfect. How could he have been so stupid as to hurt his sweet son? How could he deny them their inextricable, special bond? His heart swelled with love for the amazing human that lay next to him, his chest rising and falling deeply as he slept. He could not believe Legolas had found it within his heart to forgive him his missteps. He was so grateful, so completely amazed at his son’s capacity for love, and he would spend the rest of their lives making it up to Legolas. Of this he was sure; he would never do anything to hurt him again. He could not bear to see his eyes filled with sadness even once more.

Thranduil swiped at a rogue tear that had trickled down his reddened cheek and leaned down, pressing his lips to Legolas’ forehead before he stood and padded through to his own bedroom. His body was craving sleep, and he needed to heed the call.

Thranduil lay, staring out of his bedroom window, and waited for sleep to claim him. His body was weary and his mind was exhausted, he would be glad of the sleep. But then he heard a light scuffling in his doorway, and he turned to peek over his shoulder to see what had caused it. He half expected it to be Gandalf searching for more pizza.

There, standing with bleary eyes and Gandalf cuddled in his arms, was a very sleepy Legolas. Thranduil smiled gently and propped himself up onto an elbow.

“Legolas?”

Legolas bit his lip and took a tentative step forwards, his eyes never leaving his father’s as he said, “Can I… Can I sleep next to you?”

Thranduil hesitated. While it was what he wanted – it was what he craved so completely that such thoughts had invaded his dreams for countless nights – he didn’t want to move too quickly with his young son. There had been enough heartbreak between them for a lifetime; he did not want to be the cause of any more.

But Legolas was staring at him with such hopeful eyes – eyes that were still tinged with a lingering redness that Thranduil had caused – that he could not bring himself to deny his son what he wanted. Thranduil gave a small nod, and Legolas’ face lit up as he moved towards his father’s bed. Thranduil made a silent promise to himself, there and then, that he would strive to see that happiness on his son’s face as many times a day as he possibly could. Legolas deserved nothing less.

Though he had been given permission, Legolas still went cautiously. He didn’t want to spook his beautiful father by rushing things; he couldn’t take such a rejection again. He stepped around the bed carefully, padding over to the opposite side from where his father lay, and climbed on top of the sheets gracefully. He plopped Gandalf down at the end of the bed and shuffled forwards. Though he had been in his father’s bed once before, it now seemed unfamiliar and cold. Legolas scuffled himself down the bed as quickly as possible, laying his head on a fluffy feather pillow and bringing his clasped hands up to rest under his chin.

Thranduil turned to face his son - Legolas had left a wide chasm between their two bodies. He stared across at his nervous son for a few moments; he watched as Legolas’ breathing hitched and his throat bobbed when he swallowed. Thranduil sighed and smiled and reached out a warm hand to his son, who looked at it apprehensively.

“Come here, iôn-nín,” Thranduil whispered.

Legolas blinked once, making sure that he had heard his father correctly, before his face stretched into a beaming smile and he shuffled towards Thranduil’s embrace. Thranduil enveloped his son in his strong arms and Legolas nuzzled his face into the crook of his father’s neck; breathing deeply and closing his eyes.

They stayed that was for a few long moments; content to be near one another and at peace with the bond that had formed between them. Legolas could not keep the smile from his face as he cuddled further in to Thranduil’s strong arms. He felt so protected, utterly and completely, and he could not remember a time when he was happier. In his father’s arms, anything was possible – even seeing colour in a colourless world.

Legolas was so happy, so content and relaxed after a few minutes pressed against Thranduil’s broad chest, that some of his happiness spilled over; his hands roaming around to encircle his father’s waist. He nuzzled his nose into Thranduil’s neck, trailing small, quick kisses over the soft skin as he went. Thranduil sighed and let out a low hum of pleasure, leaning in to his son’s sweet kisses, before he went rigid and pulled back.

“Ada!” Legolas mewled as Thranduil pulled out further from their embrace, shuffling backwards a little to make space between their flush bodies. Thranduil gulped and averted his gaze from his son’s; he couldn’t look into those violet eyes without wanting to ravage his innocent young son.

Legolas was not dissuaded so easily, especially from something he wanted so badly, and he wriggled forwards. Thranduil opened his mouth to protest, to spout some tired rhetoric about how he wanted to take their physical relationship slowly, but Legolas silenced him with his soft lips and warm tongue.

Thranduil moaned as Legolas slid his mouth over his; his lips slow and decadent yet forceful in their aim. Legolas sought to show his father how much he wanted him. He wanted to make Thranduil see how much he desired to be taken - to be claimed - by his soulmate. He craved it, and he would not be sated by some twisted sense of duty his father still clung to.

Thranduil melted under Legolas’ ministrations, his willpower quivering against the force of his attraction to his beautiful son – his soulmate. Legolas’ lips massaged over his, pliant and talented and oh so very delicious. And then Legolas slipped his tongue between his father’s lips, tasting his flavour with an exploratory lick, and Thranduil had to pull away. It was too tempting; his son rubbing up against him in his bed with his tongue in his mouth. It was too difficult to resist, yet Thranduil felt that he had to for the sake of his son, his conscience and his lingering sense of parental responsibility.

Legolas sighed and licked at his own bottom lip when his father pulled back once more. He could still taste Thranduil on himself, lingering like some depraved tease. It was almost more than the young blonde could take; almost. When Thranduil could not meet Legolas’ eyes, he decided to take action.

“I want you, Ada,” Legolas breathed; panting from their kiss, “I am not some innocent child, and I know you want me too.”

Passion clouded Thranduil’s eyes at Legolas’ vocalisation of the fact that he wanted him. The words did strange, beautiful things to his insides. Legolas reached out a tentative hand, unwilling to spook his father, and placed it flat against the broad muscles of Thranduil’s chest. He trailed his hand down the hard muscles and down over Thranduil’s clenching stomach, reaching the waistband of his pants. Legolas bit his lip and slipped his hand lower, now able to feel his father’s pounding hardness beneath his fingertips.

Thranduil gulped in a huge breath, his hands flying downwards to grip Legolas’ while his hips thrust wantonly against his son’s touch.

“Legolas!” Thranduil growled, and Legolas sighed and pouted delicately.

“ _Please,_ ” Legolas rasped, his voice gravely with pent up desire, “ _Please let me touch you_.”

Thranduil’s stomach flipped over at his son’s decadent words, “I… I can’t…” Thranduil whispered, his entire body screaming at him to pin Legolas down to his bed and ravage him until he forgot his own name.

Legolas held his father’s nervous eyes for a few seconds before he rolled them dramatically, fully pouting his beautiful lips and sighing long-sufferingly. His father had too much honour for his own good, and he loved him for it. Thranduil gazed at him with wide eyes that were filled with a barely-restrained want.

Plan A had failed miserably, so Legolas moved on to plan B.

He sighed, bringing Thranduil’s restraining hands up to his lips and kissing them delicately, “Will you paint me again, Ada?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**
> 
> [12 Days of Thrandolas](https://archiveofourown.org/series/367124) has started! Go give it a sneaky look and let me know what you think! <3
> 
> I will be posting a Barduil one-shot on the 27th December 2015. It will be entitled 'Drive'. Watch out for it if you're into Barduil!
> 
> My vacation is going exceptionally well :) I already have a lovely tan going on! <3
> 
> **More of my art can be found at[plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)! Come and say hello, I don't bite <3**


	12. X-Rays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil paints his son in colour, and Legolas implements his devious plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***waves***
> 
> Hi! Here is the next chapter of AVS. I very much hope you enjoy it. I haven't had the best start to the new year, but I hope all of you had a spectacular time! Let me know what you think <3
> 
> x

* * *

 

X-Rays /ˈɛksreɪs/ adjective: a form of electromagnetic radiation with a predominant wavelength of roughly 0.01 – 10 nm. X-rays carry enough energy to ionize atoms and disrupt molecular bonds.

Legolas could not believe that he was actually going ahead with his truly daring plan. He could not believe that Thranduil was allowing it, though his father did not know the full extent of what he had planned. The plan – it had occurred to Legolas like a bolt from the blue. It was risky, and very probably could backfire, but Legolas had to try. He needed Thranduil so desperately that he would try anything.

His soul was calling out to be joined properly with his father. He ached through his entire being to kiss Thranduil, to make love to him, and he would not be sated by some tender kisses and chaste cuddles. No, he needed Thranduil surrounding him, thrusting into him, claiming him. He had been tortured with waiting for longer than was ever necessary.

It was enough.

Legolas nibbled on his pink bottom lip as he sat and waited for his father. He was sitting somewhat awkwardly on a grey chaise longue that stood on the floor with immaculately carved brown wooden legs. The greyness was oppressive to Legolas’ newly strengthened sense of colour and he wondered how he had ever lived in a world so devoid of it. Thranduil would have to get the chaise reupholstered - perhaps something in red velvet?

They had taken their nap, which had lasted longer than either of them had expected – the whole night - and Legolas now felt refreshed and on edge all at once. His tiredness had abated, and now all that was left was his desperate need. He had nursed tumultuous, carnal dreams of his father all through the night and had had to hide his throbbing erection for much of their time together. Even now as he sat, he could feel his arousal stir. His father was destroying him.

Thranduil entered his studio space carrying a tray filled with a freshly brewed pot of tea, teacups and a cute little jug of milk. He smiled softly at his beautiful son and placed the tray onto the chaise longue, just resting it against the jut of Legolas’ knee.

“Tea,” Thranduil said, his eyes immediately appraising the light around the room. It was almost completely light outside, with the sun peeking up from behind the tall buildings of central London just outside the window. Thranduil had angled the chaise to the perfect spot in the middle of his studio space. His keen eye and vast artistic experience allowed him to quickly decide what light he needed on his subject. He had lit Legolas to perfection, casting pretty shadows around him that were so interesting to render.

Legolas beamed at his father, carefully masking his niggling anxiety, and poured himself a soothing cup of tea. It was such a simple thing, to have tea with the man he loved, but Legolas had never been happier. He still could not quite believe that Thranduil had accepted their bond, and the way it would change their relationship. Elrond had been a godsend; he would be forever grateful to him.

“If you are tired, we could always do this tomorrow,” Thranduil said, watching Legolas intently and taking a slow sip of his tea, “We could spend the day here… cuddling.”

While that sounded surprisingly close to Legolas’ imagining of a perfect day, he shook his head. He gulped his tea and set down the cup. No. It had to be today, he wanted Thranduil – his soulmate – today.

“I am not tired at all, Ada,” Legolas smiled, “I slept well in your arms. I slept well for the first time in weeks.” Of course, it was all because of Thranduil. He hadn’t been able to sleep because of his father, now he was the one lulling him into a tumultuous dreamscape. It had an ironic symmetry that Legolas found that he quite liked.

Thranduil blushed at the memory of waking cuddled around his son. He had been confused for a moment or two when he had locked eyes on who was pressed so intimately to his body, but had immediately calmed when memories of the day had flooded back to him.

“Are you hungry? I could make some breakfast?” Thranduil offered, perching himself at the edge of the chaise and staring into his teacup.

Legolas raised an eyebrow at his father and shuffled back, lounging his body against the chair and crossing his legs elegantly. He had on a pair of smart trousers, a soft grey cashmere sweater, and his father’s blood red scarf. Though his plan did not involve any clothes, he had dressed as such so as not to spook Thranduil.

“I ate some leftover pizza,” Legolas explained, cocking his head expectantly at his father. Thranduil gave him an exasperated look, “Shouldn’t we take full advantage of the morning light?” Legolas asked expectantly, adjusting the scarf and angling his body towards where his father’s easel was set up.

Thranduil grumbled a little before he emptied the dregs of tea left in his teacup and set the tray away from the chaise. He moved the chair a little - angled it a little better for the constantly changing light. He took a couple of laps around his lounging son, his eyes taking everything in as he did. He took note of the curve of Legolas’ hip under his trousers, the way his bare feet hung off the edge of the chair, the way the scarf flowed like water over his shoulder’s and defined chest, and the way his golden hair shone in the early morning light. He truly had never had such a beautiful sight to paint.

As Thranduil fiddled with the fall of the scarf and the twist of the cashmere jumper his mind flitted back to the last instance he had painted his son from life. They had had a very different relationship back then and their world had been drab and sad and rendered in monochrome. The portraits that he had done of a grey Legolas sat in the corner of his studio – still beautiful and well painted, but absolutely worthless to Thranduil. That was not his son. This was Legolas – beauty and colour and violet eyes. He did not know if he would do his son justice with this first piece, but he knew that he would love every second of it.

Thranduil continued to fiddle with Legolas’ pose and clothes, and eventually he reached up to swipe at his son’s hair, pulling it behind his pointy ears and draping it across the scarf and down his chest. Legolas hummed in happiness to have his father’s fingers playing through his hair and, when Thranduil brushed a stray strand from his eyes, he turned is face and placed a small, tender kiss to the inside of his father’s palm.

Thranduil stopped his fussing and cupped his hand, sliding it to caress the heated skin of his son’s cheek. Legolas grinned and looked up, his eyes glowing with happiness, and a pure love that Thranduil had never seen before. He did not know it was possible to love and want someone as completely as he did Legolas. He smiled back at his son, dragging his thumb over the delicate arch of Legolas’ cheekbone – he would very much enjoy painting such a beautiful face in colour.

When Thranduil was happy with every aspect of Legolas’ composition, he flicked on some music and took a seat at his easel. He was just decanting some turpentine into a jar, its acrid smell reminding him of happy memories and jump starting his creative urges, when Legolas shifted a little and strained to see what Thranduil was doing.

“Will you make the chaise and my clothes colourful?” Legolas asked, biting his bottom lip.

Thranduil smiled around the canvas he had set up, their sparkling eyes meeting, “I will.”

Legolas’ small smile mutated into a full-on grin, “What colours?”

Thranduil sighed, still smiling, “Let me surprise you, ‘Las.”

Legolas scrunched his face together, but let his father have what he asked for. The colours he used would be irrelevant in a few minutes anyway, and Legolas would be the one surprising his father. Thranduil set about prepping his palette; mixing the precious oil paint that Elrond had given him with a smudge of linseed oil to help it flow. The musky smell of the oil combined with the turpentine to allow Thranduil to slip into his creative zone, all of the colours and the light suddenly making sense in his mind.

He had decided to only focus on Legolas’ form, disregarding the environment around him, and had chosen a deep ochre to bring out the gold in Legolas’ hair. The chaise would be red, with the wood being kept its natural colour. He was painting on a large canvas, much larger than he would usually use for a full body composition, but he felt as though Legolas deserved nothing less. He had not decided on how he would tackle Legolas’ clothes, but he began working on the background and his son’s outline in the meantime. He found that he enjoyed sketching onto his canvas in a deep red paint instead of his usual light grey; it somehow spoke to all the right places in his creative mind.

When Thranduil looked up at his son to begin sketching his form as a guide, he blinked. Legolas had removed his cashmere sweater and was now only clad in tight trousers and his red scarf. He had not noticed his son move, never mind discard an item of clothing. Legolas looked to his father innocently, his violet eyes wide with doe-like happiness.

“The grey was depressing,” he said simply, and Thranduil’s eyes slipped down to the way his strong pectoral muscles shaped his torso. They were well defined for someone his age, though Thranduil had never seen Legolas work out in the home gym he kept at the far end of his flat. Perhaps it was all the extreme graffiti he did that kept his body in such delectable shape. Legolas did not need to have his portrait painted to be called a great work of art.

Legolas said nothing further, and Thranduil merely cleared his throat and turned his eyes back to his canvas. He had yet to begin Legolas’ torso, so his removal of his shirt would not be a great imposition. He began to work on the curve of the chaise, striking down to capture its whimsy and plushness. And then he was working on the legs, delicate and twisting and lovely. Eventually, Thranduil had to begin on Legolas’ body, and he made only a few strokes to get his general shape. He started adding in the location of various details, such as his hairline, nose, mouth and eyes, and the way Legolas’ legs crossed and his feet dangled off of the edge of the chair.

After about a half hour, Thranduil nodded to his son, who was watching him intently, and Legolas sighed and righted himself. He stretched his muscles and worked the tension in his neck away as he took a break. He stood, scrunching his toes and throwing a small smile over at his father as he padded over to reheat the tea and pour himself a cup.

There was little in the world that Legolas enjoyed more than Thranduil painting him. It was the intense concentration that clouded Thranduil’s eyes as he looked at Legolas that made him feel… exposed. Like he was the only human being on the planet. It was as though Thranduil was seeing him completely, and for exactly what he was, and that was all he ever wanted. Seeing Thranduil squirm and blink when he removed his shirt was an added bonus, and Legolas gulped his tea nervously as he prepared for phase two of plan B – his pants.

Thranduil was appraising his work, stalwartly trying to keep his eyes off of his son’s beautiful torso, when Legolas slipped out of his pants. He wore simple black underwear underneath, which ended just below the start of his thighs and accentuated his strong, hairless legs. He had never liked body hair and he always kept himself smooth and hair-free. He finished his cup of tea and sauntered back over to the chaise, now only covered in his underwear and the bright red scarf. He arranged himself into his previous position, and then he waited.

Thranduil started when he saw what his son had done. He blinked and his hand jittered upwards, the line he was rendering of the jut of Legolas’ jaw going completely awry.

His mouth dropped open before he exclaimed, “Legolas!”

Legolas gazed at his father impassively and said, “I was hot.”

‘You are hot’ Thranduil thought, his heart pounding in his chest as his eyes took in the sight. Legolas was more gorgeous than he could have ever imagined; his legs were strong and toned and long and pale and… oh gods. Thranduil shifted a little in his seat as his cock twitched to life. His pants felt immediately tighter and he grimaced and looked to the canvas, trying to steady his breathing. He wanted Legolas so badly that it hurt him in places he was sure were lost to him. All the caring and love and lust and longing that he thought his heart was devoid of rushed back. Why had he wanted to wait again?

“You’ve only done the undercoat, haven’t you Ada?” Legolas said innocently, “You can easily get rid of the pants?”

Thranduil gulped and nodded and tried not to look at Legolas as he painted him, an absolutely ludicrous task. He found that his eyes were consuming the skin of his son at an alarming rate, and the paint that he put to canvas was steadily growing less precise and more affected by his errant thoughts. How would Legolas’ skin taste if he laid kisses all over his body? Would he shudder and moan and come even before Thranduil had touched him? Would he writhe and groan and thrust up against his father?

Gods. Thranduil was painting as though he had never touched a brush in his life. Legolas was severely out of proportion, and the colours he was using to undercoat his pink flesh were not of the correct tone. He had even managed to mess up the background. He was absolutely butchering Legolas’ portrait, but he could not find it within himself to focus.

Both Legolas and a very distracted Thranduil turned their heads when they both heard a startled meow. Gandalf had appeared from out of Thranduil’s bedroom, stretching his fat little legs and stopping dead when he saw what he had walked in on. His best friend was lying on his usual sleeping place, only a flimsy scarf covering his modesty and a soft smile on his face. Somewhere between Thranduil getting distracted and becoming flustered at his horrific painting, Legolas had slipped out of his underwear and had tossed it over the back of the chaise. Phase three was complete.

Gandalf gave one more question mew, sniffed the air for any hint of food, decided there was nothing there for him but the odd activities of his masters, and turned his fat body to amble away. He chose Legolas’ room this time - he loved to wrap himself up in Legolas’ bed sheets and fall asleep cuddled into his best friend’s scent.

When Thranduil turned back to look at Legolas once more, his breath stuck in his throat. He let out a high-pitched cough and splutter and his eyes went wide. Legolas was completely naked, save for the scarf, and almost all of his gloriously pale skin was on full view to his father.

“Legolas!” Thranduil gasped, clutching at the paintbrush in his hand so tightly that it snapped in half.

Legolas raised an eyebrow and watched as Thranduil discarded the broken brush and picked up another, hurriedly dabbing it in paint and swiping at the canvas. He was not concentrating, and he made random, nervous brushstrokes.

“Legolas,” Thranduil garbled, his eyes boring into the canvas. “Legolas… please, put… put your pants back on.”

Legolas tilted his head and waited, he waited for Thranduil to look at him once more. Eventually, after much swiping and scratching and wiping at his canvas, Thranduil had to look at his now-nude model again. As he did, as he locked eyes with his son, Legolas pulled the scarf from around his neck, tugging on it until it flopped to the floor. He was completely and utterly naked, sprawled on a chaise in front of his father, offering himself to his soulmate. He was nervous, and all of his previous arousal and bravado had disappeared. What if Thranduil decided to chuck him out of his flat once more? What if he scolded and berated Legolas and would not speak to him for doing something so sneaky?

Thranduil did not look away. A flush had risen high on his cheeks, dusting his face with a healthy blush, and he had begun to perspire a little along his hairline. His blonde hair was pulled back, scraped down into a bun, and wispy tendrils fluttered past his wide eyes as he simply stared at the naked form of his son.

“Ada,” Legolas whispered from across the room, but Thranduil just blinked out of his reverie and stood hastily. Legolas’ eyes followed him apprehensively. Had he angered him? Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed? Oh gods, he shouldn’t have. Now his father was angry…

Legolas jumped when Thranduil gripped the canvas and removed it from his easel, throwing it haphazardly to the floor. But Thranduil was not shouting, he was not cursing and throwing things… he was searching for something.

After rummaging for a few moments, Thranduil pulled out a fresh canvas, much larger than the one before. He heaved it onto his easel, but he did not take a seat. This time, he stood, his eyes soaking up every inch of Legolas as he made his first marks on the blank white canvas.

“Ada?” Legolas breathed, his eyes wide.

“Just… just stay like that,” Thranduil rasped, mumbling half to himself, a fire lit behind his eyes and his arm moving feverishly over the canvas. “Stay just like that.”

Legolas’ mouth twitched up into a small smile and he watched his father intently as he seemed to find his inspiration. Being painted by an inspired, soul-bonded Thranduil was very different from his last experience. Thranduil had been precise, calm and collected, when he had painted Legolas before, now he was a mass of passion and a flurry of movement and emotion. And when he stepped out from behind his large canvas to get a better look at some facet of his taut body, Legolas could see that his father was very much affected by his nakedness.

Thranduil was hard. He was hard and big and gods… his erection strained at his pants and Legolas just wanted to taste it. Legolas sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and shut his eyes as his cock twitched at the thoughts he was having. The sight of his father so aroused had aroused him. Slowly but surely, Legolas began to feel the blood pooling around his groin, and his cock began to pound and grow hot with want.

Thranduil’s jaw clenched visibly when he glimpsed the pink jut of Legolas’ hardness for the first time. His hand faltered and shuddered as he painted, yet he continued, his whole body shaking. Thranduil used his forearm to brush a stray hair from his eyes. He did not let it slow him down, and he continued to paint, his eyes devouring the form and colour in front of him and his hand rendering them immaculately on the surface before him. He ignored his own cock, even though it was pounding and demanding that he drop the paintbrush and climb on top of Legolas.

“Ada?” Legolas asked after a while, his voice deeper and rougher than it had ever been. His cock was achingly hard and it rested heavily against his pale stomach as he sat posing. From the outline that was visible through his father’s tight pants, Legolas could see that he was not as big as Thranduil, though he was a decent size. Gods, Thranduil looked… he looked large and delicious. “Ada?” Legolas asked once more when his father did not answer. His soft blue eyes were filled with desire, yet he could nothing but keep painting.

“Ada? Can I have a break?” Legolas’ neck and shoulders were beginning to ache. Everything was aching – aching for Thranduil.

“Just a few more minutes,” Thranduil growled.

But Legolas had had enough. He swung his legs off of the chaise, planting his feet firmly onto the floor, and stalked over to his father. Thranduil’s eyes widened as Legolas walked, unashamed and flushed and oh so very ready for him. His hard pink cock bounced between his legs as he stepped around his father’s easel and came to stand in front of Thranduil, a mere step away from him.

“ _Enough_ ,” Legolas breathed, not even glancing to the painting. He held his father’s passion-clouded eyes, “Enough, Ada.”

Thranduil shut his eyes as Legolas approached him, bringing his naked chest up against his father’s clothed body and pressing them together. Thranduil could feel the insistent press of his son’s cock against his thigh and he gulped.

“Did you plan this?” Thranduil breathed as Legolas reached up, standing on his tiptoes to nudge his nose against his father’s. Legolas smirked, a little bashful, and his pretty eyelashes fluttered.

“Are you angry?”

Thranduil breathed in a ragged breath. He whimpered, so uncharacteristically that it startled Legolas, and then the paint-soaked brush fell from his hands. It clattered to the floor with a dull thud, smearing red all over the studio, but Legolas had no time to assess the damage. Thranduil’s paint-splattered hands were in his hair all at once, his lips on his and his tongue in his mouth. Legolas gasped and moaned when Thranduil pulled his son against his body, rubbing their arousals together through the flimsy material of his clothes.

“Ada!” Legolas breathed in-between ravenous, consuming kisses. Thranduil was worshiping him, mouth and body, and he had never been kissed as he was being at that moment. There was a desperate undercurrent to Thranduil’s movements, but also a caring, selfless love that made Legolas was to cry. Though his eyes were closed, though his world was dark and shadowy, Legolas’ colours shone through his eyelids to burn his retinas. As Thranduil made love to his mouth their bond hummed to life, causing them both to feel faint with want. Thranduil would not deny him now, not when he was naked and pulsing and presenting himself to his father.

Legolas’ yelped as he was pulled forwards, his lips never leaving Thranduil’s, and he stumbled after his father. Thranduil was tugging him away from the canvas, pulling him towards his bedroom. If they were going to make love, Thranduil wanted to do it properly. He wanted to claim Legolas on his own bed, where he could take his time and ensure Legolas’ comfort.

As Thranduil tugged Legolas into his bedroom, the younger blonde’s heart began to pound violently. His pulse fluttered and he struggled to breathe – unbelieving of the fact that he was about to get what he wanted.

“Legolas?” Thranduil sighed as he steered them towards the bed, his lips never far away from Legolas’, “Are you… are you sure?”

Legolas gulped and nudged his father back so that his knees hit the edge of his sprawling bed. Thranduil blinked once and sat down heavily onto the firm mattress, his legs giving out. He wanted Legolas so much that his body was completely wracked with trembles, his legs feeling weak and his arms shaky.

“I’m sure,” Legolas gasped out, carefully placing a knee on either side of his father’s body and lifting himself up into his lap. Thranduil placed his hands tentatively on his son’s strong sides, sliding them up his back and rubbing gentle circles as he pulled his hands back down.

“Have you done this before?” Thranduil asked, looking up at his naked son. It was a question he had to know the answer to. Legolas’ arousal was pressed up against Thranduil’s stomach and he gave a tentative thrust - craving friction. Leaning down, Legolas placed an ethereal kiss to Thranduil’s swollen red lips and he rubbed his leaking arousal up against his father’s body.

“Not with a man.” It was the truth.

Thranduil knew that his son was beautiful and kind, and that he probably had many girls chasing after him, but to know that he would be his first worried and excited him in equal parts. The dominant, possessive side of him roared out approval at being the first to claim him, but the caring, loving side of him worried about hurting Legolas, both physically and emotionally.

“I will be gentle with you, iôn-nín,” Thranduil promised. Tenderly, and infinitely carefully, Thranduil reached up to brush away a smudge of red paint from Legolas’ cheek. The young blonde was marked with paint over his chest, back and sides, evidence of Thranduil’s ardour. But the oil paint did not wipe away, it merely spread around and clung to Legolas more firmly. It didn’t matter, and Thranduil once again captured his lips in a tender kiss.

Legolas smiled softly through the kiss, the love he had for Thranduil in his heart expanding to encompass his body. Gods - his father was perfect, and he couldn’t believe that he was lucky enough to call him his soulmate. How was he worthy?

But the smile was quickly wiped from Legolas’ face, replaced by a look of surprise and a delicate laugh as Thranduil pulled him onto the bed and spun them so that he was pressed on top of his son. Thranduil rolled his hips expertly, grinding down against Legolas, and he drew a delectable moan from his pretty lips. Gods, the sounds of Legolas’ pleasure were more enticing than Thranduil could have imagined.

Soon, Legolas was tugging at the clothes that covered his father. He wanted to feel Thranduil’s skin, to run his hands over his father’s heated flesh and be able to kiss and lick and nip at any spot that took his fancy. He needed skin on skin. Thranduil was slow to peel his shirt from his body, and even slower to slip out of his pants – he wanted to draw it out. He wanted to go slow and tease Legolas, he wanted to make it good for him, but Legolas would not be sated by slow.

“Ada!” Legolas gasped when Thranduil pressed a lingering trail of kisses up his chest and neck to nibble on the tip of his ear.

“Let me love you, ‘Las,” Thranduil purred and continued to suck, rocking his hips languidly against his son’s cock. His own large arousal pressed insistently against his underwear, yet he was not thinking of his own pleasure.

That was until Legolas growled and slipped his hand past the flimsy black material of the only scrap that was still covering him and gripped onto his father’s cock. Thranduil’s breath hitched and his sigh became stuck in his throat. The feeling of his son’s strong hand around him for the first time was absolute bliss. It was depravity incarnate, but blissful nonetheless.

“Legolas,” Thranduil moaned, thrusting into his son’s hand, his hips stuttering.

It was the first time Legolas had ever held a cock that was not his own in his hand. Thranduil was large and heavy, his skin velvety smooth and heated to his touch. He found that he wanted Thranduil even more, and he wanted to bring his father only pleasure. He twisted his hand sinfully, doing to his father what he liked to be done on himself, and Thranduil was groaning and thrusting and gasping out in a matter of minutes.

Legolas was exceptionally talented with his hands, and Thranduil had to extract himself from his son’s grip to prevent himself from coming. Legolas whimpered and began to protest, but Thranduil simply slid his underwear off of his long, pale legs and stretched over his writhing son to extract a small glass bottle from his bedside table. It had been many months since he had last felt the need to indulge in carnal activities.

Legolas grew still, and his eyes watched with fascination, as Thranduil coated his fingers in the oily fluid that was inside the bottle. Thranduil was true to his word, and he went as gently as his trembling fingers and pounding heart would allow.

The first touch of Thranduil’s fingertips against his body drew a startled gasp from Legolas. The sensation of his father’s forefinger sliding over his entrance and rubbing slow circles against him was foreign, but quite pleasurable. Thranduil’s eyes slipped over his son’s lithe young body as he prepared him. His cock was flushed and red and leaking with precum, and Thranduil’s own hard length twitched in anticipation. Gods, Legolas was enchanting.

Legolas whimpered a soft, gasping sigh when Thranduil dipped into his body, stretching him deliciously while crawling back over him and pressing their lips together. Legolas had begun to perspire. His neck was damp, fuelled by adrenaline and want, and the soft hairs at the base of his neck clung to his skin. Thranduil’s tongue invaded his mouth for the umpteenth time that day, curling around his and drawing moan after glorious moan from his lips.

The second finger Thranduil added was uncomfortable, but he was slow and careful and so loving that Legolas barely registered the discomfort before it was giving way to decadent, burning pleasure. Legolas was so caught up in the way his father made love to his mouth, and the way his heavy cock rested against his stomach, that he only felt glorious desire when Thranduil added a third finger. Then Thranduil placed the very tip of his cock against Legolas’ clenching entrance, and his deep violet eyes went wide. They were swirling and churning and almost black in their intensity.

Thranduil paused, his body pressed against Legolas’ chest and one arm supporting his weight, “Legolas?”

Legolas gulped and tried to relax his body. He tried to just give in to it, the pleasure and the pain that was inevitable.

“Do you still want this?” Thranduil asked, panting and restraining himself from nudging forwards.

Legolas took a deep breath. His chest rose and fell and he smiled gently up at his father, his eyes clearing and the blue of Thranduil’s irises consuming and calming him. Instead of answering his father, Legolas stretched upwards and kissed his soulmate. He kissed him with everything he had, and pushed down against the tip of Thranduil’s cock.

Thranduil hissed and thrust forwards, his hips seeking out his pleasure, and he slid easily inside his son. Legolas had been tenderly prepared, and he felt only minor twinges of pain as his father’s large cock thrust into him. He felt so full, instantly.

“Gods! Ada!” Legolas mewled, clutching out and digging his fingertips into the skin of Thranduil’s back. Legolas blinked rapidly, everything becoming blaringly bright. His father’s blonde hair shone with yellow… it rippled and flowed like molten gold as Thranduil set up a slow, tortuous pace. His skin glowed red and pink with undertones of blue as his strong muscles twisted and turned, finding the optimal spot to pleasure his son.

But Legolas saw blinding, brilliant white when his father hit a sensitive bundle of nerves within him, his cock sliding against it and causing a shout to be ripped from his throat. His eyes flew open, his back arched, and Thranduil kissed and worshipped him when he hit that spot again. And again. And again. And then Legolas’ cock was enveloped by his soulmate’s large hand, and he found himself receiving untold pleasure, both surrounding and inside him.

Legolas sighed, his breath hitching when his father drew out of him. Thranduil was hazy, his eyes and mind addled with lust, and he pulled back to far, his cock slipping from Legolas’ tight body and bouncing up between their sweaty bodies. The young blonde whimpered and shuddered when his father’s cock slid out of him – he felt empty immediately. He wanted it back. He wanted all of it. He grappled his hands down, sliding over sweaty skin and grasping out for his father. Thranduil bucked when Legolas palmed his slick erection, guiding him back to his clenching and flexing body. Soon, Thranduil was again buried in his son, his hips working once more to pleasure Legolas.

And then, all at once and with very little warning, Legolas was coming. He was coming hard and fast, with his face buried in his father’s chest and his arms clasped around his neck. He found himself sobbing, waves of emotion and relief coursing through his body and spending all of the tension that had been building within. Finally, he was right where he was always meant to be – wrapped around his soulmate and experiencing life right along side him. And everything was in colour; wonderful, magnificent colour. There was no pain any longer, no confusion or nervousness or worry of rejection.

Thranduil came as soon as he felt the first trembling shudders of his son’s body. He had been holding back for weeks, and his frustrated body finally found the release it had been craving. Thranduil held his son as they both rode out their climaxes; his eyes wet with the first few trickles of tears. Bonding in such a way with his soulmate was an experience like no other, and an irrepressible feeling of calm and acceptance washed over him as his pleasure fluttered away. He was still buried to the hilt in his son as he turned them, clasping Legolas to his chest and burying their noses next to one another as they panted and heaved in oxygen.

After a few blissful moments, Legolas nuzzled against his father and placed a sweet kiss onto his protruding clavicle. Thranduil sighed and hugged his son tighter, revelling in the feeling of ‘home’ that he had found. It had taken much heartbreak and confusion to get them to this point, but it had all been worth it to experience such a thing as being joined with his soulmate.

“Ada?” Legolas breathed, his hot words flitting over the sheen of sweat that covered Thranduil’s neck. His head pounded with blood and his mouth hung open in a sweet ‘o’ as he panted. Making love to Thranduil had exceeded all of his wildest expectations.

“Hmm?” Thranduil smiled, his eyes locking with Legolas’ sparkling ones and his hands smudging the already messy vestiges of paint left on Legolas’ body. He had a dash of red on his cheek and a streak of ochre on his chest.

“Can we do that again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**
> 
> The art is the portrait of Legolas, when Thranduil finally got around to finishing it.
> 
> [12 Days of Thrandolas](https://archiveofourown.org/series/367124) is finished! Go give it a sneaky look and let me know what you think! It really means a lot to have feedback! <3
> 
> My latest piece of Barduil is Drive! I would very much appreciate some feedback if you have the time! <3
> 
> **More of my art can be found at[plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)! Come and say hello, I don't bite <3**


	13. Gamma Rays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and Legolas pack for a very important move, and get distracted by each other along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***appears out of thin air***
> 
> Hello! First of all, a very sincere apology for missing last week's update. I was very ill at the end of last week, and I could not give this chapter the attention it deserved. I was unwilling to post a sub-par piece, so I decided to wait until I was better to finish it. 
> 
> I hope this makes up for my lack of an update! It is basically fluff, because I have put you all through enough angst :) I very much hope you enjoy it!
> 
> x

* * *

 

Gamma Rays /ˈɡamə reɪs/ adjective: a form of electromagnetic radiation with predominant wavelengths of less than 10 picometers. Gamma Rays are ionizing radiation.

Legolas bit his bottom lip, his eyes unblinking and glassy, as he took in the magnificent sight before him. Thranduil was sweaty – he was sweaty and half naked and had his hair tied into a tight, low bun at the base of his skull. He was bent over, the muscles stretching over his ribs contorting to steady his body, and his face was set in stern concentration as he pulled a stripe of packing tape across a nondescript brown box. Thranduil’s forearms glistened with the sheen of sweat brought on by the exertion of packing. He had shed his shirt a few moments previously, and it was balled in a damp heap on the hardwood floor.

Thranduil brushed a piece of blonde hair from his eyes as he leaned upwards, turning his head to look at his son. Legolas still stood, gaping at the sight of his father. It was embarrassing. Even though they’d been together for more than a month, his father often caught him staring. But he could not help it; he was regularly entranced by the way Thranduil’s blonde hair framed his face, the curve of his jaw, the sweep of his elegant nose, the sparkle in his light blue eyes, and the way his toned body moved… _gods_ – that body.

“Legolas?” Thranduil asked, his eyebrows coming together in a quizzical frown. His son was staring at him; a roll of packing tape clasped limply in his fingers and a hazy look in his violet eyes. He had come to know that expression well; he knew what his son was thinking and he took great delight in teasing his young son. “Are you quite alright, iôn-nín?”

Legolas blinked away the passion that clouded his eyes, yet a very prominent reminder of his arousal remained tenting his jeans.

“Yes,” Legolas coughed, offering the packing tape to his father with trembling fingers, “Yes, I’m fine…”

Thranduil smirked and swatted Legolas’ hand away blithely; stepping closer to his son. He was continually astounded how passionate Legolas was. He was always ready and willing and oh so very eager to please. Thranduil didn’t know how much longer he could keep pace with his teenage son’s libido; he was still recovering from the decadent time they had spent the night before. But he could never deny Legolas, not when his cheeks blushed and his ears flushed and he squirmed to try and hide his arousal from him.

“Are you sure? You look as though you’re in need of a hand?” Thranduil knew that taking off his shirt while they packed would distract Legolas. Though he hadn’t prepared himself for just how coy and lovely his son looked when he was embarrassed. Legolas blushed furiously when Thranduil stopped in front of him and placed a cool hand against his burning cheek.

“ _Ada_ ,” Legolas huffed, squirming. His father knew just how to undo him. Thranduil had become so proficient at arousing him, so delectably good at eliciting just the response he wanted, that Legolas spent most of his time either dealing with a pounding erection between his legs or trying to prevent himself from descending into such a situation.

Thranduil grinned; he loved it when Legolas could barely contain himself. He leaned down, brushing his lips against his sons as he whispered, “Yes?”

Legolas growled, but the sound rumbled through his body and flew out of his mouth in a desperate little squeak as he gripped Thranduil’s face and yanked him down. He squashed their lips together, his tongue immediately begging for entrance. Thranduil allowed it and soon they were making out passionately, both clasped in each other’s arms. Legolas’ hands traced along the contours of Thranduil’s pale, sweaty chest, rising up to skim over his toned shoulders and arms. Gods. Those arms had held him down while Thranduil’s mouth had done wicked things to him many a time, and the memories send thrills through Legolas.

Thranduil ripped Legolas’ shirt off of his shoulders in one movement, parting their mouths for only the minimum amount of time to allow this, before he was devouring his lips once more. They were not done with their packing yet, they had a few more boxes to go, but that did not stop Thranduil from spinning Legolas around and unceremoniously pushing him against a neat stack of them. Legolas yelped and laughed and pulled Thranduil on top of himself, gripping his hands into his father’s hair and dislodging some of the strands from his bun.

“You will be my undoing, ‘Las,” Thranduil rasped against his son’s clammy neck as he nipped and licked at his skin. Legolas shuddered. He always enjoyed such statements from his soulmate. It reminded him of what they both meant to each other, and how far they had come to get to this blissful, glorious moment.

Legolas had wanted to move to Port Rivendell immediately, but Thranduil had been more reticent. He was afraid of ripping Legolas away from his old life; away from the memories of his mother and the safety of his friends. Legolas had worn him down though, as usual. He longed to see the town that was filled with soulmates and happiness and bright colours. They were keeping the apartment in London and were only packing the most essential of items to take with them. Thranduil could not bring himself to forsake the place where he and his son had become soulmates.

“Ada, please…” Legolas begged; cutting through the mist of Thranduil’s memories and jerking him back into reality. Legolas sighed and slipped his hand past the waistband of Thranduil’s sweatpants, palming his father’s hard, heavy cock. The muscles in Thranduil’s jaw clenched, grinding his perfect white teeth together as he thrust into his son’s hand. His lips parted, falling open as he felt Legolas work him. His son was now an expert on his cock. Legolas knew everything about how his father liked to be touched – what made him moan and squirm and beg and come so hard that he saw stars. Legolas had grown rather fond of making his father beg. He loved the way he could make the proud, stoic artist fall apart beneath his fingers with a quick twist of his hand and something dirty gasped into his pointy ear.

“Perhaps we should take this to the bedroom?” Thranduil gulped, but Legolas held onto to his cock, continuing to move his hand up and down on the velvety shaft.

“No,” Legolas breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, “Here… now…”

The boxes were uncomfortable to lie on, and one of the pointy corners dug into Legolas’ shoulder, but he did not care. He didn’t know if it was because of their soul-bond, though he suspected it wasn’t, that he was always so ravenous for his father’s touch, but all that Legolas knew was that he needed Thranduil so very badly. His ears began to buzz with the electricity fluttering through his veins, and the colours he saw rippled and blared out, invading his mind with a hopeless delirium that only Thranduil could cure him of.

“ _Legolas_ ,” Thranduil gasped, like a prayer against his son’s skin as he licked and nipped and sucked at Legolas’ neck. He had extracted himself from Legolas’ grasp, and he was now thrusting against the bulge in his pants, rubbing their cocks together through the rough layers of jeans.

They rocked their hips together fervently, finding a decadent rhythm that had them both gasping into one another’s mouths. And then Thranduil slipped his hands under Legolas, gripping his ass and assisting his movements – working him against his pounding cock. Legolas whimpered and devoured his father’s mouth, shutting his eyes tightly and losing himself in their bond and Thranduil’s malleable lips.

Legolas was surrounded by his father’s scent, and it comforted him and inflamed his passion all at once. While his father was sweaty and dishevelled form their packing, whispers of his cologne still clung to his skin and invaded Legolas’ mind. And then Thranduil gasped and rubbed just right against Legolas’ cock, and he was coming. He was coming so hard and so fast that he did not have a moment to warn his father. Legolas’ body shuddered, trembling as his eyes rolled shut and a shout of pleasure leapt from his throat.

Thranduil was surprised at his son’s lack of control, and his eyes went wide before he slowed his hips, drawing out Legolas’ pleasure. Legolas was young, yet he had learned much from his father in their time together. He should not have come so easily from the mere rubbing of their cocks through clothes.

The passion in Thranduil’s eyes cleared gradually and his hips came to a stop. His cock was still aching for release, still pounding in his pants and begging for Legolas’ touch once more. Thranduil blinked down at his son. Legolas was bashful and avoided his father’s eye contact while flushing red from head to toe.

“Legolas?” Thranduil asked, his voice gravelly, “Are you alright?”

If it was possible, Legolas blushed even deeper and shifted his eyes to blink up at Thranduil.

“I’m sorry Ada,” Legolas panted, “I can’t help myself around you.”

A huge smirk worked its way across Thranduil’s face, matching the path of the blush that spread from his nose to his cheeks. Gods, Legolas was perfect.

“Let me make it up to you in the shower?” Legolas said sweetly, his fingers playing along the strong muscles of Thranduil’s arms.

Thranduil’s pupils dilated and his nostrils flared. His son knew how fond he was of shower sex.

“I suppose that would be a fitting way to bid farewell to the apartment,” Thranduil chuckled, reaching down to brush his nose against Legolas’. His son nuzzled into the touch, shutting his eyes against the brightening of his colours.

Legolas squeaked in surprise when Thranduil picked him up, wrapping his arms around his waist and lifting his son to straddle his slim hips. Legolas laughed and kissed his father, hard and passionate and full of life as he was transported through the apartment and to what had become their bedroom. There were various signs of Legolas dotted around Thranduil’s bedroom; an extra few pillows on the bed, some trainers left discarded by the clothes hamper, an ornate robe that Legolas had commandeered strewn across ‘his’ side of the bed, and the subtle scent of him soaked into the duvet and blankets and all of Thranduil’s clothes.

The two blondes made it to their large shower more clumsily than usual, with Thranduil not being able to keep his lips off of his son’s. Legolas was his terrible addiction and his miraculous salvation - he would never be able to get enough.

Legolas was hard again, painfully so, when Thranduil stripped him of his remaining clothes and dragged him into the shower. His body craved Thranduil so deeply, so completely, that it responded to his father’s touches quickly. Thranduil looked so magnificent when he stood under the pounding stream of water. His blonde hair was quickly drenched and it stuck to his chest and shoulders and flopped a little across his cheekbones. Legolas gulped and ran his hands down his father’s strong torso, revelling in the feel of clenching muscles and smooth skin.

Thranduil’s cock was straining upwards, hard and ready for his soulmate, and Legolas’ breath was once again stolen from his body in wonder at the blonde beauty. How they had ever lived as only father and son was now a mystery to Legolas. Thranduil was the most enchanting being he had ever known, how had he not seen it before? How could he ever have been afraid of his father? Thranduil was beautiful, right down to the depths of his soul. The stoic veneer and the introverted façade shielded a sensitive, loving man, who had been hurt too many times before to allow his heart to be on display. Legolas knew that he would heal him. It may take time, but he would heal his father.

Thranduil smiled and pulled his son against him as they both stood under the cascade of water. He claimed Legolas’ lips with a power and tenderness that seemed to be at odds with the other, and Legolas loved it. Quickly the young blonde found himself with his back pressed up against the chilly glass of the shower and his father smothering his front as he rubbed their cocks together. They were slippery from the water, yet Thranduil did not fumble as he reached down and pressed a finger to Legolas’ entrance.

Legolas hummed encouragement against his father’s neck, and he licked and sucked at it until Thranduil had a dusty red streaked all down his skin. Soon, Legolas was being worked open, and he writhed and panted against his father as Thranduil held him up against the glass and pleasured him. Thranduil was an expert on his body, and what it liked, and he had him trembling and begging within a few seconds.

Thranduil did not wait long to acquiesce to his son’s pleas. He had been hard for Legolas for far too long to go slow, and he knew his son could take it. With a little bit of lube easing his way, Thranduil picked Legolas up into his arms, and entered him gently. Legolas had become so fond of shower sex that they had taken to keeping an entirely separate bottle of lubrication in the shower, just for that purpose. He loved to feel the beating of hot water onto his porcelain skin while his father moved inside of him.

Thranduil sighed and gasped against his soulmate’s skin as he made love to him in the shower. He lost himself in the bliss of claiming Legolas, all his previous thoughts of doubt and his reticence about making love to one so young and innocent having long faded into oblivion. They were soulmates, bonded forever through love and colour, and their joining was the most natural thing in the world.

“ _Ada!_ ” Legolas warned that he was close with a desperate gasp into Thranduil’s ear. Thranduil whimpered and ground his stomach against Legolas’ pounding cock, pleasuring his son from both ends, and Legolas came with a sob and a dirty moan. He wrapped his arms around his father’s neck as he spurted his release between their stomachs, and he writhed and twitched in unashamed pleasure.

Thranduil followed soon after, the feeling of Legolas’ trembling body too much for him to resist. He slowed his pace as he came down from his Legolas-induced high. Eventually they were left pressed up against the cold shower wall, with Thranduil still buried up to the hilt in his lovely son and Legolas trembling in his arms. The young blonde was placing soft, feather-light kisses against his father’s chest as they stood, unwilling to be parted.

But, inevitably, they had to part, and Legolas stood to the floor of the shower with tentative legs that trembled when he was not supported by his father’s strong body. And then Thranduil set about cleaning every inch of his soulmate. He washed away Legolas’ cum and his sweat tenderly, worshiping every muscle and each freckle he found. He washed his hair, massaging his scalp gently and with a loving reverence that almost made Legolas cry. And then Legolas returned the favour. He cleansed every inch of Thranduil’s tall, strong body, leaving burning kisses in his wake.

It was only when the water began to turn tepid that Thranduil clasped Legolas in his arms and breathed a kiss onto his soggy skin. “Shall we finish packing?”

Legolas pouted. He wanted to spend forever in that shower, safe in his father’s arms. But he nodded, knowing that what awaited them that day would be the beginning of their new life; together.

“Wash my chest just once more?” Legolas said, smiling coyly up at his father. And how could  
Thranduil resist such a request?

**§§§**

Thranduil could not help but snigger as he watched the scene in front of him. Gandalf, usually so completely in love with Legolas, was dodging his son’s attempts to catch him. The fat cat knew something was awry, and had been on edge ever since the two blondes had begun to pack boxes. When Legolas had produced the travelling cage that would hold Gandalf, the cat had lots his mind.

His furry grey hackles rose as Legolas climbed over the couch to reach him. The cat let out a low hiss and backed away from his best friend’s outstretched arms.

“Gandalf!” Legolas sighed, exasperated when the cat dodged him once more.

Thranduil merely smiled and leaned against a wall. Raising one heavy eyebrow he said, “Now you know how I feel all the time.”

Legolas pouted and made another desperate swipe at the cat, “Gandalf! We’re trying to take you with us!”

The cat meowed in horror and scurried around the couch.

“He knows we’re taking him away from home, I suspect. I adopted him as a tiny kitten; this is all he has ever known.”

Legolas brushed his long, flowing blonde hair out of his eyes and rested his hands on his hips, glaring at Gandalf, who had leapt up onto the coffee table.

“Maybe I could tempt him with some pizza? Is there any left over from yesterday?”

“You demolished it in the middle of the night, remember?” Thranduil’s smirk only grew wider. Legolas’ propensity for snacking in the early hours of the morning was adorable.

Legolas’ brow furrowed in concentration, “Do we have any cookies?”

Thranduil shook his head and watched as Legolas changed tack. His son was freshly showered and still slightly pink at the nose and cheeks. They had spent longer than necessary in the shower together, washing and rubbing and worshiping one another, before Thranduil had dragged them out to have another go on their bed. Legolas had left his hair free and flowing, deciding not to bother with the intricate braids he usually wore. Thranduil loved it when his son left his hair free and he could run his fingers through its loveliness.

Thranduil smiled as Legolas stalked towards him, all the while throwing little glances back at Gandalf to make sure he was watching. In the month that they had been together, Gandalf had developed a nasty habit of becoming jealous every time Legolas showed Thranduil any sort of affection. The fat cat could not understand why he was not the sole object of Legolas’ love and hugs and kisses.

Legolas placed a soft, delicate kiss to Thranduil’s cheek as he rose up onto his toes. He tilted his head, his eyes locking with Gandalf’s as he did so. The cat stopped his hissing immediately and glared at Thranduil with his big yellow eyes. Legolas moved his kisses to the side, ghosting over his father’s lips, and Thranduil sighed out a breath of pleasure. Even though they had just fucked each other senseless in the shower, and on the bed, he would happily go another round with his beautiful son.

Legolas squeaked when his father suddenly wrapped his arms around his slim waist, pulling his mouth more snugly against his. And then Thranduil’s tongue was in Legolas’ mouth, and all thoughts of Gandalf flew from his mind. Thranduil’s fingers buried themselves in Legolas’ smooth hair, tugging gently on the delicate strands and drawing gasp after decadent gasp from his soulmate’s lips.

“ _Ada…_ ” Legolas breathed when Thranduil pulled back, but the rest of his sentence was smothered as he dove for his son’s lips once more. He made love to Legolas’ mouth with his tongue and teeth and pliant lips, and his son was boneless and trembling in his arms within seconds.

Gandalf was meowing and squeaking around their heels in an instant, his fat furry face tilted upwards with a look of absolute horror. He did not like to be excluded from anything Legolas did.

“Get him,” Thranduil mumbled against Legolas, their lips still clashing and their bodies still pressed up against one another.

“Hmm…” Legolas moaned, “Just a few more seconds.” And then he was kissing his father with all the passion he had, dipping his hands into the waistband of Thranduil’s slacks.

“ _’Las,_ ” Thranduil smiled, happy that he could distract his young lover so.

Legolas groaned and ripped himself away from his father’s lips. When he kissed Thranduil, everything else became unimportant. Everything that was not Thranduil’s lips or tongue or taut body was irrelevant, and Legolas wished he could stay in the wonderful bliss that was kissing his father forever. Thranduil was his drug of choice, and he never wanted to be free of him.

Legolas was swift, though still a little hazy from the effect of Thranduil, and reached down to scoop Gandalf into his arms. The fat cat was happy for a few seconds, happy to have dragged his best friend away from Thranduil, but all too soon realised that he’d made a terrible mistake. He meowed pitifully as he was hoisted up into Legolas’ arms, and he squirmed as Legolas gave him a kiss into the fur at the side of his face. He looked with wide eyes to Thranduil, who stood smiling smugly next to his soulmate, and gave a squeak of terror.

“Come, fatty, you’ll only have to be in a cage for a short while,” Legolas cooed, and Thranduil scratched between Gandalf’s ears in triumph. The cat squirmed and mewed, but Legolas held onto his fat body securely. With relatively little fuss, as Gandalf seemed to have resigned himself to his fate, Legolas was able to deposit the cat into his travelling cage. Once the door was securely locked, Gandalf let out a low, morose meow of heartbreak at being caged, and Legolas looked down at him with sad eyes.

Thranduil chuckled and stepped up close behind Legolas, wrapping his arms around his stomach and nuzzling into the crook of his soulmate’s neck.

“He’ll be fine, ‘Las,” Thranduil whispered, placing a hot kiss to the bottom of Legolas’ jaw.

“I know,” Legolas sighed, leaning back into his father’s embrace and shutting his eyes. The sight of Gandalf’s betrayed and hurt little expression caused the young blonde great pain.

“Come,” Thranduil breathed, giving his soulmate a tight squeeze and a tiny kiss, “Let’s head out. Elrond is expecting us at our cottage.”

Happiness flooded through Legolas at the mention of their new home. Thranduil had purchased a renovated little house that stood on a high cliff overlooking Port Rivendell. The house had two plush bedrooms and an attic studio for them both to paint and draw. Legolas couldn’t wait to visit the little town of colour; he couldn’t wait for them to start their new lives away from the dreariness of London. While the city would always hold fond memories for him, the oppressive grey had been taking its toll on the soulmates. To be able to see colour and live in a place where it was so sparse was soul-crushing and draining. A little island of colour and acceptance in a world of dank, lifeless grey seemed like heaven to Legolas.

Legolas smiled as Thranduil slipped into a coat and helped his soulmate into his own. Legolas picked up Gandalf’s cage, tippling slightly under the sheer weight of the cat, and gave the apartment one last look. While Thranduil was keeping it as a place to stay if they ever came to London, Legolas knew that it would be a very long time before he saw it again. While the place held incredible memories for him, memories of love and belonging and passion and pain, it was time to leave.

“Are you ready?” Thranduil asked, extracting his keys from his pocket and reaching for Legolas’ free hand. Legolas blinked, his eyes flittering over to the large windows that were sunk into the side of the apartment. Through their graceful arches he glimpsed the radiant blue of the midday sky and the gentle swaying of green leaves.

He took a deep breath and met his father’s soft eyes.

“I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**
> 
> Most of you don't know this, but I am exceptionally unhappy with the career I have and my current job. I have multiple awesome ulcers and what I suspect is a mild depression from spending two years as an engineer. I recently applied to film school in Vancouver and I got in! Woo! So, in 1 week I will be handing in my resignation and beginning my new journey 1 month after that. I hope to have a career in either Directing, Cinematography or Editing. Or all three :) hah.
> 
> Anyway. Since film school is very expensive, I have decided to sell my art skills to save up some money (for food and air fare). I am currently taking requests for avatars/banners for your blogs/cover art/fan art/illustrations. My fee will be relatively small compared to other artists (as I am quite new). My fees will ranged from $5 for simple line art avatars to $50ish for very involved pieces of cover art. So, please, if you need any artwork done, get in touch on my Tumblr (see below). You will be supporting a worthy cause (my mental health and happiness) and will be getting some kick-ass art (will all rights) in the process. Also, if you know anyone who may be interested, let me know :D
> 
> Also, if there are any Canadians here who have any advice about moving to Canada, I would be very grateful! <3
> 
> **More of my art can be found at[plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)! Come and say hello, I don't bite <3**


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***cries a little***
> 
> So, we have come to the end. I really don't know how to feel right now. I am unwilling to be parted from these two, but their story has run its course. Who knows, maybe I shall come back to them at some point. But for now, I am concentrating on some Barduil and the sequel to Tale as Old as Time. It shall be called Song as Old as Rhyme. Watch out for it, it's coming.
> 
> Thank you to every single lovely person who left a comment for me on this piece. Every comment made me so happy, and kept me going! I definitely would not have reached the end had it not been for you! For everyone who has subscribed and bookmarked - you are all lovely, and I'm honored.
> 
> A special THANK YOU must go to ofplanet_earth. She had helped me immensely (especially when I lost my motivation for the last few chapters). She also puts up with my endless poking for more Barduil and my general weirdness (<3). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this wrap up and sexytimes (because how could I write an epilogue without sexytimes?) Also, see the end note for a link to my art blog. I am taking commissions for all of your art needs - from small pieces to large compositions.
> 
> Okay. So, here it is -  
> Enjoy  
> x

* * *

**_The Next Summer_ **

Thranduil was woken by the tickling brush of hair against his face. He stretched, his strong back arching, and he curled towards the scent that enveloped him – _Legolas_. Every morning that he woke up ensconced in his son’s arms was pure heaven.

“Ada,” a sleepy voice mumbled, and hot lips pressed to his neck. Thranduil smiled and wrapped his arms around the warm body next to him, dragging Legolas towards him under the thick, downy covers. He loved the mornings with Legolas. Salty sea air always greeted him, floating in through the slightly open window, and the sound of gulls and the flickering of sunlight lulled him into a relaxed, blissful state. And then there was the pale, lithe body wrapped in the cream sheets next to him. Gods, it was as if he was still dreaming.

“Good morning, iôn-nín,” Thranduil whispered, nuzzling his nose into Legolas’ hair and taking a deep breath. Legolas hummed and slipped his hands around his father’s slim waist, letting his fingers wander just low enough to slip under the tight black underwear he wore and brush over the top of his ass.

“Today is the day,” Legolas whispered, his lips grazing the side of Thranduil’s mouth.

“Hmm,” Thranduil answered, his lips much too distracted by the taste of his son’s. Today was indeed the day. As he kissed Legolas, undeterred by both of their morning breaths, Thranduil’s stomach churned and growled out its hunger. Legolas huffed and sighed and pulled back, moving his hands to scrape along his father’s taut abdomen.

“Shall I make us breakfast?” Legolas asked, his fingers trailing over the soft, white-blonde hair that led down to his father’s semi-hard cock. Thranduil moaned and rubbed himself against his son’s eager hands – Legolas knew just what he liked first thing in the morning; bacon, eggs and sex, with a little tea thrown in after.

Legolas smiled as his father sighed and thrust against his hands. It was a lazy Saturday morning, they didn’t have to be up for hours, and they could take their time exploring one another. That is, if Gandalf did not interrupt them by begging for his food. The cat was currently passed out on the bright red chaise longue that lay at the foot of their massive bed.

“In a moment - first you will have to take care of this for me,” Thranduil rasped, his cock rapidly filling out in Legolas’ skilful hands.

“In my experience,” Legolas teased, his teeth nipping at Thranduil jawline as he pumped him, “This never takes just a moment.”

He was right, and Thranduil’s lips spread into a smile. They never could get enough of one another, and their time together in Port Rivendell had only strengthened and solidified their soul bond. If anything, they had become even more ravenous for one another. Legolas could never fall asleep if he was not in his father’s arms, and Thranduil could not find it within himself to be able to get out of bed if Legolas was not beside him. They were both completely dependent on one another and they rarely did anything apart. Legolas would be invited to run amuck with Elrond’s twins every so often – they were entranced by his graffiti skills and he was enamoured with their vast soulmate and Port Rivendell knowledge – but he would always be back by Thranduil’s side soon enough.

Thranduil moaned in disappointment when Legolas removed his talented hands from his cock and instead slipped them to cup his ass, his fingers sliding over his cleft and pressing to his entrance tentatively. Legolas’ violet eyes widened as he scrutinised his father’s expression. He had not taken Thranduil very often, he had been content to be pleasured up until a few weeks ago, but had recently begun exploring the full extent of their sexual options. He was always afraid that he would hurt his father, but Thranduil had only ever responded with sweet moans and heady climaxes.

He needn’t have worried, as Thranduil smiled and pressed himself closer to his son, gasping out a sigh of encouragement. And then Legolas’ movements grew bolder, more deft in their technique, and he pressed into his father’s body firmly. Thranduil gulped and bit the inside of his cheek as his son slipped the tip of his finger into his clenching body. It was rare that Legolas was so daring. He always took his father’s lead when they were in bed, preferring to allow the more experienced man free reign of his young body.

Maybe Legolas was trying to take Thranduil’s mind off of what would happen later today? Maybe he thought him nervous? But Thranduil was not nervous, not in the usual sense. He was filled with a fluttering excitement and an eagerness for Legolas to experience what he had created. He hoped his son would like it.

“ _Ada_ ,” Legolas whispered against Thranduil’s eyebrow, placing a kiss just below it as he pressed himself right up against his father. He rubbed their cocks together through their underwear, sighing out a breath of pleasure as he did. Though Legolas was only eighteen, he had developed an astounding technique, and Thranduil was writhing and moaning in a matter of minutes.

Thranduil took control for a moment, batting his son’s hand away from himself and spinning in Legolas’ strong arms. He pressed his ass against Legolas, rubbing his hard cock between his cleft when those arms surrounded him once more. Gods, Thranduil submitting so willingly turned the young blonde on so violently that he thought he may come undone right there and then. Legolas’ teeth were at his father’s neck for a few seconds, nipping gently as he work his way down to kiss his shoulder, dotting each small freckle with love.

Legolas fumbled in anticipation as he extracted his pounding arousal from its confines. His hands were still trembling as he pushed his father’s black underwear down past his ass, exposing the taut round muscles to the warmth of their cocoon in the sheets. Lubrication was never far from hand, and Legolas merely had to reach over to his nightstand to procure it.

Thranduil breathed a sigh when he felt Legolas nudge against him, still tentative and unsure.

“It’s okay, ‘Las,” Thranduil said, pressing back against his son’s cock. Legolas smiled against his father’s shoulder, the tip of his nose buried in Thranduil’s white-blonde hair. The shimmering yellow that sparkled along the strands of Thranduil’s hair burned itself into Legolas’ retinas as he pushed forwards, sheathing himself in his father’s tight heat. He shut his eyes against it and dug the tips of his nails into Thranduil’s hips. _Gods_ , his father felt amazing. But then, he had expected nothing else.

Legolas gave a tentative thrust, his hips stuttering a little when met with such boundless pleasure, and Thranduil twisted in his son’s arms. He brought their lips together tenderly as Legolas ground against him, their breaths swirling together from their noses.

It was languid, tender lovemaking, so very different to their usual ravaging of one another, and it brought hot tears to Legolas’ eyes. He kept them closed, he tried to fight the wave of pleasure and belonging that he felt wash over him; he wanted to concentrate on giving Thranduil as much pleasure as he possibly could. But his attempts were futile, and his soulmate could somehow sense that he was fighting it.

“Let go, my darling, I won’t break,” Thranduil mumbled against Legolas’ lips, digging his fingers into his slightly-askew braids. And Legolas crumbled – how could he not? With his father surrounding him, body and soul, he was helpless. He was in too deep, he was completely in love, and he was exposed in the extreme. But he would not change it for anything.

Thranduil gasped when Legolas gave a particularly skilful thrust, hitting his prostate in a way that made his eyes widen and his mouth hang open in a sweet ‘o’ of surprise. And then Legolas had his mouth against Thranduil’s cheek, open and panting and whispering babbling words of devotion. He gasped about how he loved him, how he felt so good on his cock, how he wanted to stay buried inside of him for the rest of his life, and how very much he wanted to come.

And then Thranduil whispered his own words of affection and love, and Legolas was whimpering and coming, harder than he had ever remembered coming before. Thranduil followed soon after, coming with his son’s hand around his pounding cock and Legolas’ teeth biting down into his shoulder to muffle his cry of pleasure.

Legolas hummed, pumping his father’s softening cock as they both regained their breath. Thranduil let his slightly sweat head flop back against his son’s chest, boneless and sated. They were still surrounded by quilts and duvets and a great deal too many pillows, but the warmth was familiar and comforting to the two beautiful blondes. They both had no intention of moving.

And then Gandalf appeared, like a phantom rising to peek over the covers at his master and his best friend. Legolas snuggled against his father, trying to get as close as he possibly could, and threw the cat a steely stare.

“Five more minutes, fatty,” Legolas sighed. Gandalf was perpetually hungry.

Thranduil’s pretty eyebrows scrunched together and he opened his eyes. His workout routine had suffered since moving to Port Rivendell, but he would not describe himself as ‘fatty’, even as a cute pet name.

“ _Fatty?_ ” Thranduil questioned, mildly outraged. And then he saw Gandalf’s fat face looking at their entwined forms.

Ah, Gandalf. Of course. They never could curb the cat’s appetite, and he had only become more rotund since their move.

Legolas snorted a little, amused that Thranduil thought he was talking to him. The vibrations lanced through where they were still joined, and Legolas’ laughing mutated into a groan of pleasure. Thranduil grinned and pushed back onto his son, moving his hips in a tight circle until Legolas forcibly stilled him with fingers dug into his waist.

“ _Ada! Gods!_ ” It was sweet torture, overstimulation and sensitivity making Legolas’ teenage mind swirl and then short out.

Thranduil, exceptionally proud that he could make his young lover exclaim such things, stilled his movements. He pressed his lips to his son’s again, unable to ever have enough of their wondrous pleasure.

“Bath?” Thranduil asked in between ravaging Legolas’ mouth. They had nowhere to be that morning. They could take their time exploring and washing and bathing in one another’s arms. It was at times like these that Thranduil was glad he had installed an enormous claw-foot tub in their en-suite.

Gandalf mewed – loudly and a little closer than he had been before. Legolas rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed.

“I’ll feed the cat. But then yes… a bath.”

**§§§**

Gandalf had stuffed himself silly with his breakfast, yet he still wanted more. He had been put on a strict diet when he had arrived in Port Rivendell, the local vet taking one look at him and declaring him obese. Thranduil had merely scoffed at the idea of restricting Gandalf’s food intake, too familiar with the cat’s wily ways to think that it would work. Legolas had tried his best, he truly had. But Gandalf was incredibly skilled at opening cookie boxes, tearing packets of crisps open, and generally getting into anything that contained food. It would have been impressive had the cat not been such a glutton.

His food addiction had only become worse with the move. He had been so traumatised that he had demolished an entire roasted chicken while Thranduil and Legolas were distracted by each other’s bodies. Since the roast chicken debacle, as it had been named, Gandalf had settled in rather well to his new home. He had plenty of gulls to chase – on days when he was not lazily sunning himself - and more space than he could have ever imagined.

Gandalf watched his master and his best friend eat, his fat furry tummy rumbling away. Legolas had cooked the bacon, while Thranduil had made the scrambled eggs. The smell of the food had tortured poor Gandalf, and his nose had been twitching from the first sizzle of the first strip of bacon.

The two blondes sat at their cosy dining table. The table was placed in the conservatory that adjoined the back of their renovated cottage, and it was bordered on one side by huge windows that allowed an immaculate view of the sea. The other side of the room was dominated by a large portrait of Thranduil, painted by Legolas in his characteristic style.

Their cliff-top house was just isolated enough to afford Thranduil the solitude he craved and just close enough to town for Legolas to drag his father out to socialise. In short, it was perfect, and moments when they ate breakfast together in a comfortable silence were cherished by both of them.

“Just give him a little bacon,” Thranduil said, raising an eyebrow at Gandalf. The cat was perched on the edge of the table, his eyes bugging out as he stared at Legolas’ fork.

“He’s too fat,” Legolas insisted, “The vet will kill me when I bring him in and he hasn’t lost any weight.”

Thranduil shook his head a little and shovelled some scrambled egg into his mouth. “He’s going to have a nervous breakdown if you don’t at least give him a taste.

Gandalf was edging closer and closer to his best friend. He was concentrating so hard on the strips of bacon on Legolas’ plate that he had started to tremble in anticipation. Legolas eyed Gandalf worriedly, before he relented and broke off a tiny piece of crispy bacon and placed it at Gandalf’s paws. The cat was on it in an instant, and he licked his lips in pleasure when it had disappeared into his mouth.

Thranduil eyed his son; his thoughts racing as he carefully placed his knife and fork together on his empty plate. He knew he should wait until the event in the afternoon, but he just could not restrain himself any longer. He had been painting in secret for weeks, keeping his work a surprise for his son, and he could stand it no more.

“Come, I can’t wait any longer.”

Legolas grinned wide as Thranduil clasped his hand and dragged him out of the house, abandoning their empty plates to Gandalf. Their fingers were always intertwined more that strictly necessary. Legolas constantly found a reason to hold his father’s hand – whether they were doing their shopping at the quaint little grocery store by the harbour or simply strolling along the pebbled beach. It was more than Legolas could have ever hoped for, considering whom his soulmate had turned out to be.

In the sleepy little town of Port Rivendell, the only things that mattered were soulmates and colours. Everyone knew what soulmates meant, they all saw the colours and the joy, and Legolas and Thranduil were free to express their love for one another in public. Legolas took advantage of every opportunity. It was extraordinary to feel Thranduil’s fingers squeeze into the spaces between his, and Legolas let out a tiny chuckle. He laughed for no other reason than he was happy. Perhaps it was the effect of some of his joy spilling over - he could not restrain his happiness.

Thranduil smiled and returned Legolas’ tiny laugh. He knew what it meant; he didn’t have to ask.

“I’m not really dressed to go wandering around,” Legolas said, looking down to his clothes. He wore sweatpants and a white tank top. The day had warmed up nicely, and he was enjoying the relatively hot English summer.

“It doesn’t matter what you are wearing, you look beautiful. Walk on the beach with me,” Thranduil said, pulling Legolas along. Thranduil was hardly dressed for public either. He was usually always immaculate in his outfits, yet now he was wandering down to the beach in his sweatpants and a paint-splattered T-shirt.

Legolas followed happily; content to simply be holding his soulmate’s hand. Their destination did not matter, their clothes did not matter. All that mattered was Thranduil. They walked next to each other, hands clasped and goofy smiles on their faces, on the pebbled beach. Above them rose cottages and apartments built onto and into the cliff face, all brightly painted and trumpeting the joy that they housed.

“Where are we going?” Eventually Legolas’ curiosity got the better of him.

Thranduil pulled his son along the beach and up a rickety wooden staircase. They ascended, with Thranduil not answering his son’s question. He wanted to show him. He wanted to show him what he had done for him.

“Ada!” Legolas laughed. They were now ambling down a cobbled street, directly adjacent to the tiny harbour of Port Rivendell. But Thranduil merely smiled and dragged Legolas to a tiny little store that sat between a florist and a bakery. Above the windswept little green door was a sign that proudly read ‘ _Greenleaf Gallery_ ’. The sign had gone up the day before and Thranduil had spent most of that day trying to prevent Legolas from going into town, scared that he may see it. He had spent most of the previous month conveniently dodging any questions Legolas had about the renovations that were going on in the small shop. In a tiny village, such a thing was big news. It had been the sole topic of gossip in the town for a month.

Legolas froze, blinking at the cute little store. It was glazed in the front with huge, clear windows and he could see that the walls were lined with art - _his father’s art_. Thranduil, hardly daring to look at Legolas’ reaction, extracted a key from his sweatpants pocket and opened the door. He stood on the threshold and smiled coyly, waiting.

“It’s _yours_? And you… you named it after me?” Legolas said disbelievingly. He had thought his father’s work was to be displayed in the town hall.

Thranduil shrugged and stepped inside the space. Elrond had helped immensely, and had procured much of the refurbished furniture that populated the space – the small green desk that was coated in chipped paint, the ornate light fittings… the blazing red chaise longue, a copy of the one that sat at the foot of their bed, that sat in the middle of the space; allowing guests to take a seat and view the works. On every wall, save one, hung a piece of Thranduil’s work. It was the opening day of his first Port Rivendell art exhibition, and every piece he had painted had been a secret from Legolas. It had been difficult, and Thranduil was sure his son had caught a glimpse here and there, but he had pulled it off rather well. Every piece of work was brightly coloured, loose and depicting some facet of the tiny port town.

It was an homage to colour, and happiness and his new home.

“ _Gods_ … Ada…” Legolas was slack jawed as he looked around, “Everything is beautiful…”

Legolas trailed off when he glimpsed the focal piece of the gallery. With his eyes wide, he padded towards it. It was a huge canvas, that dominated a whole end wall of the space, and it showed Port Rivendell’s brightly coloured houses in all their glory. Legolas had never seen something so loose, so filled with frantic energy and happiness, from his father. Thranduil had transformed his style, and was now rendering emotion and colour, rather than perfection and tone. It was mesmerising and completely immersive. Legolas had not laid eyes on anything so perfect.

Legolas started when he felt his father wrap his fingers around his. He had been so consumed by the painting that he had not noticed his soulmate walk up alongside him.

“You like it?” Thranduil asked, but he didn’t need to. Legolas’ eyes had filled with tears immediately, and that was comment enough for him. Legolas nodded, never taking removing his gaze from the painting.

“It’s all for you, ‘Las. I tried to paint how you make me feel,” Thranduil said softly, shifting his weight on his feet nervously. It was always nerve-wracking to have someone view his art, soulmate or no.

Legolas spun to face his father, and Thranduil met his eyes with some tense trepidation. He wondered if he had gone too far – would it all be too much for the young blonde? Would the depth of his love and devotion be too terrifying?

Thranduil should have known not to underestimate his son, and he was soon dealing with an armful of Legolas and a faceful of radiant blond hair.

“I love you, Ada,” Legolas whispered, burying the tears that he had started to shed into Thranduil’s strong shoulder. Thranduil held his soulmate then, cradled against him, and closed his eyes. He gulped and squeezed Legolas, clinging onto him desperately. His life was so full of wonder and love at that moment, he doubted that it was reality. Surely there had been some mistake? Surely he did not deserve such delirious happiness?

Legolas sniffed and pulled back a little, laughing through his tears, “And that wall? Are you hanging another piece?” Legolas was referring to the blank wall. It was white and untouched and begging for adornment.

“That one’s for you.”

Legolas blinked, “For me?”

“We need a permanent piece of art; I thought you could do something? Maybe a reworking of that tree you vandalised the side of Bilbo Baggins’ art gallery with?” Thranduil gestured to a neat stack of spray paint that Legolas had not noticed before. “It’s what brought us together.”

Legolas was shocked into silence, and he gazed at the cans for a few moments before he turned his eyes to his father.

Icy blue met startling violet.

Thranduil made to say something – perhaps he wanted to explain or elaborate or ask if it was what Legolas wanted? But he never got the chance, because Legolas covered his slightly parted lips with his own and buried his hands in his soft hair, muffling whatever words he had intended to say.

No more words needed to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for reading! Much appreciated!**
> 
> Guess what? I just quit my job :D
> 
> I am now taking commissions for Cover Art/Illustrations/Avatars/Banners/anything you may need. My prices are very reasonable, so send me an inquiry for a quote on what you would like! Thank you for all your support so far! 
> 
> [plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Come and say hello, I don't bite <3


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